


Joe's Truth

by adabsolutely, mackiedockie



Category: Highlander
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adabsolutely/pseuds/adabsolutely, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Highlander the series. A Round Robin Production by Mackiedockie and ADabsolutely. Full of puns, D/M slash, and Joe's attitude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joe's Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first story we wrote together, all those many years ago. I seem to recall that there was rather a great deal of sex in the story. But plot too, of course. A round robin done the old fashion way through e-mails.

1.  
Joe was a Watcher. He even Watched while he worked onstage. It was more vice than habit, at this point in his life. Even as he played through the bridge on one of his old standards, and the dancers moved on the floor, he kept an eye on Methos and MacLeod perched at a side table. Their shoulders were squared stiffly, they clapped politely, they watched the band, not each other. Lots of ladies in the audience watched them (and wasn't that crimping Joe's potential love life, buckos?) But they wouldn't look at each other.

Something was up. Maybe two somethings.

MacLeod suddenly stood up and glared down at Methos.

Methos squared off, and cocked his head, smiling that artistically irritating smile that would drive saints to deviltry.

Joe wound up the chorus with a twist of his wrist. It was time to do some damage control.

Then MacLeod took Methos' lapels in a fisted grip and drew him close. Very close.

And out there in front of Watcher and everybody, kissed him.

The applause was enthusiastic, if badly timed.

Joe sighed, as the slide guitar and mandolin put some lovely stinger notes on his latest song.

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen, we'll be taking a little break, now. Give it up for the band — and we'll throw in the floor show for free."

2.  
By all the rocks in Scotland, I’ve wanted to do that forever, MacLeod thought.

Applause tweaked his frontal lobe. Damn. MacLeod broke off the kiss he’d instigated, releasing his hold on his friend’s abused shirt, while savoring the taste of the prickly devil’s mouth — if not victory. No. No victory. He’d done it again. Used his physicality to end an argument. But damn it, why the high dudgeon when he tried to help? Why was it interfering when he stepped in and yet totally acceptable when Methos did the same to him?

He really needed to wipe that smug look off Methos’ face, but the music had stopped, and Joe approached, parting a sea of dancers on his way to their table.

“I’m not through with you!” He warned Methos just as Joe arrived.

“Great set, Joseph.” Methos’ voice rose as the show they’d just put on hit home with the twinkling in Joe’s eyes.

MacLeod glanced at Methos. He was glad to see an abashed look, till he realized that what he had caught was that split second when the Adam Pierson mask slid in place — for Joe.

3.  
Joe thoughtfully made his way down the ramp at the back of the stage and through the well-wishers in the crowd. He considered avoiding the immortals altogether and leaving them to kiss and make up via their own devices. Then he considered what those 'own devices' might entail. "Not in my bar," he told himself firmly. God knew what infernal devices Methos might pull out in a pinch.

He read their body language as he made his way carefully through the crowded tables and chairs. MacLeod was on his white horse about something. Methos was balking. Though clearly he was having some kind of fun while frustrating MacLeod.

If only my love life was half as active as their arguments, Joe thought to himself morosely. Finally he pulled up to the table, and admired Methos' chameleonic shift to poor, innocent Adam.

“Great set, Joseph.”

"Don't give me that look, Adam. You know you have half the crowd itching to jump in your boxers. You love it." Joe eased down into a chair and fixed MacLeod with a full Watcher glare. "Just a little more effort on your part, he'd need a snorkel."

4.  
It was nearly impossible for Methos to suppress his smirk. “Never fear, Joe. I’ve learned to withstand temptation.”

Dawson and MacLeod both broke into laughter. The offended expression Methos cast at them was sixty percent fake and rapidly replaced by a grin.

“Well I’d wager a nice Canadian beer that I’ve gone celibate for a longer period of time than either of you has. Even figured as a percentage of total life span.”

“Eighteen.” Joe offered.

“No, Joe, childhood doesn’t count. I can’t remember mine, after all.”

“Hmm. Then five or six years — after Nam.” Somewhere in the back of Joe’s brain pan he noted that it no longer hurt to remember. A milestone, that.

“That’s approximately 10 percent of your life. So Mac, (you who can’t keep your hands to yourself for half an hour) can you top 40 years? Silly me.”

MacLeod protested, “And I suppose you went without for a five hundred year stretch!”

“I never said it was my idea. It was, well, sort of out of my hands.”

MacLeod snorted and then asked, “Empty hands? But what about your — ? ”

“No and no.”

“I don’t believe a word of it.” MacLeod deadpanned.

“Let him tell his tale, Mac.” Joe said while suppressing his own smirk.

“You know it’s a lie, Joe.”

5.  
Joe turned a quizzical eye to MacLeod. "So what's your point?"

Methos gave Joe a quick, happy grin. "Smart boy."

Joe grinned back, and signaled to the waitress to bring a round. Tall tales required lubrication. This go round would probably cost him a lot more than a cold Canadian beer, but Methos' stories were worth a lot more than their weight in golden ale.

"Besides, Joe," MacLeod observed, "He's still cheating. I think you're shorting yourself. When I was twenty — well, let's just say there wasn't a tavern lass within three counties that I didn't court as the season allowed. Two weeks without comfort against the cold nights in the glen — might as well be two years."

"Oh, but you don't know that Joe is lying, too, MacLeod. You don't think he spent his twenties exploring Europe as a monk, do you? All those ladies on the Montmartre, all those lovely young students," Methos needled. "A little Watcher Academy homework? Moonlight? A bottle of red wine? Ring a bell, Joe?"

Joe colored even under the bar's dim lighting. "Okay, so I exaggerated. Maybe three years. It damn well seemed like thirty," he admitted, giving Methos a dangerous look. Laura Brennan-Thomas was not a name he allowed to be bandied about around MacLeod. And it had taken him years to get over her….

Methos disliked the veiled remorse in Joe's voice. Sometimes the Watcher caught contact guilt from MacLeod over the silliest reasons. "So you get an extra 10 percent for half the time, because if you had even half MacLeod's sex drive at the same age, and twice his discretion, we'd all be up to our knees in Dawsons."

If the beer hadn't arrived just then, Joe might have thwocked him with his cane. But he had an ironclad rule about no bar fights, and it would be embarrassing to be thrown out of his own bar. "Okay, wiseguy, you owe us a story. So you claim you were a Vestal Virgin, or what? Can you see him dressed as a Vestal Virgin, Mac?"

MacLeod stared at Methos, imagining him with his modern clothes stripped away, and his alabaster skin draped with translucent veils of...

"Mac? Hello?"

"Right. Yes. No. I can't imagine him as a Vestal Virgin. Certainly not."

Methos rolled his eyes. "Of course not. The Vestals didn't need the men. This was a lot earlier. Ever hear of the Amazons? Boy, were they mad when they found out I shot blanks. And when they found out I wouldn't stay sacrificed, either — well, I was in for it then..."

6.  
“Methos, the Amazons are a Greek myth!”

“Shush, Mac, let him tell it.”

“MacLeod, you know that every myth grew from a seed of truth.” Methos took a long swig from his beer. “Hippolyta was so pissed at me — if it hadn’t been for Hercules — ”

MacLeod groaned and Joe went ahead and thwacked the Scot with his cane. “Shush!”

“Well never mind about Hercules, but Xanakto had absolutely no sense of humor!”

“Who?” A chorus of two.

“Xanakto. No reason you’d know his name. An immortal long forgotten in the mists of time. Good riddance. The man was a religious fanatic and sadist.”

“And what has this saint got to do with your five hundred years of celibacy?” Joe prompted of necessity. If you didn’t keep Methos on track he’d wander far and wide losing the thread of the story — assuming of course that there was one in the first place and he wasn’t just making it all up as he rambled along.

“Six hundred years. He’s the fun fellow that Hippolyta sold me to when she decided in her wisdom and glory to punish me for not knocking her up.” A soft growl issued from the back of his throat before taking another sip of beer. “Centuries!”

“Quietly, Adam.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Methos shook his head, lost in thought.

Dawson and MacLeod exchanged looks — considering the possibility that some of the tale might be true. MacLeod placed a hand on Methos knee under the table. Joe pretended not to notice.

“Not now, Highlander, I’m having a memory headache.”

“What did this Xanakto character do to you?” Joe prompted again.

“Kept me busy. Counting mostly. He was fascinated by numbers and my ability to count.”

MacLeod snorted. “He kept you from having sex for six hundred years by keeping you busy counting! What the hell were you counting?”

“Baskets of grain mostly, but other commodities as well.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Counting accurately is time consuming. And the chastity strap didn’t help me either.”

7.  
Joe shifted in his chair at that revelation, and surveyed the bar, evading Methos' sharp gaze. "Well, at least you were counting grain. What is that, the Bronze Age equivalent of reciting baseball statistics?" He countered.

MacLeod shifted in his seat also, but for manifestly different reasons. "Pity about Hippolyta. You could have spent 500 years entertaining a whole tribe of women. Imagine the possibilities."

Methos paled. "Goddess save me," he muttered, hiding his expression behind a long pull on his beer.

In sympathy, Joe automatically waved for another round. His own glass was inexplicably low. However, his sympathy didn't extend to allowing Methos to skirt the subject. "Just for the historical record — were the Amazons Sauromatians, or from one of the Scythian tribes?" Joe actually knew the answer to this one, but it was always a good idea to  
occasionally fact check the oldest Immortal.

"Precursors to the Pazyryk, actually. They roamed the steppes north and east of the Black Sea. Marvelous horsewomen. That's how I got caught, originally. I was rounding up a wild horse when I was left afoot while — traveling."

Joe did some rapid calculations in his head. This would have been around 6 or 700 BC, before the glories of Greece but mostly after Methos' Horseman period. Mostly. The latter Bronze Age. "Horsethievin'. Bet the Amazons didn't appreciate that."

"You have no idea," Methos agreed, fervently.

"Kurgan country," MacLeod said darkly.

"Tough dames," Joe concurred.

"Wicked steppe mothers," Methos allowed.

Joe figured it was a good thing their beers were empty, or Methos would have been doused for that pun. "Okay, I can see why the Amazons were pissed at you, but what about this Xanakto character? It sounds as if he wanted to bore you to death."

MacLeod nodded, his eyes sparkling with wicked curiosity. "Six hundred years, was it? I find it hard to believe a bit of leather held out for so long..."

Joe remembered the comment about the chastity strap and smacked his brain around for bringing up the subject again.

Methos leveled his gaze at MacLeod. "You want the measurements?"

8.  
MacLeod wagged his eyebrows and slowly slid his hand up Methos’ thigh. Methos captured MacLeod’s wrist and relocated the wandering appendage back to its own personal space.

“We wouldn’t want Joe to have to throw us out. Besides, I’m still irritated with you.”

“What did he do?” Joe asked, fishing, of course.

“I did nothing. And he’s diverting the conversation, again.”

“Well, Mac, we have to give him time to make it up — can’t rush a good story.”

“Believe me, Xanakto was real. He resides in the bloody irritating part of my brain where mundane tasks become the end all, be all.” Methos tapped his forehead.

“So you took his head. How long were you really with him?” MacLeod lowered his voice, soothing, extracting the truth.

Methos shrugged. “Seemed like forever. I guess the most irritating thing about him was he wanted to mold me into a version of himself. Tame the wild horseman. He never succeeded over all those years. But then I took his head. I’ve seen results of both dark and light quickenings. But what do I get? Damn bean counter’s quickening.”

Dawson and MacLeod shook their heads.

“What about the chastity strap thing?”

“You’re like a dog with a bone, boy scout.”

“As long as it’s your bone.”

Chapter 2

 

9.  
Joe rolled his eyes, if only to keep them from following MacLeod's persistent fingers on their nether quest. "You know there are laws about that. Somewhere." Then a horrifying thought struck him.

"Adam — when you took the quickening, you didn't inherit his sexual hangups, did you? Is that why it took 600 years to get your pipes cleaned out? Because, honestly, man, I can't imagine you counting more than a couple of tons of lentils before you stuffed and roasted someone with them."

"Maybe it was Xanaktos who liked wearing the strap," MacLeod prodded speculatively. His eyes wandered downward, measuring, "and you had a kink quickening."

Joe almost choked on his beer on that one. "Please tell me there's no such thing."

"There's no such thing, Joe," Methos and MacLeod said in perfect unison.

"Oh, shut up," Joe shook his head, appalled. Some of the stories he'd heard about Xavier, now…. "Just as long as you don't do that thing with the caviar."

"I have him completely under control. I promise, no caviar," Methos said virtuously.

"You wish," MacLeod said with a dangerous glee, crooking his finger and making Methos jump.

"Alright, alright, don't scare the horses. It's motel thirty, anyway. You two are NOT going anywhere near my apartment in this condition." Not because Joe wasn't a proper host. The fact was, being this close to the fire without being able to warm himself was  
becoming…untenable.

"But don't you want to hear the story about the chastity strap, the day gnomon and the love philtre?" Methos asked politely.

"I do," MacLeod purred.

Joe reached over and smacked them both up the side of their heads. And he was none too gentle about it. "What I want to know is, what were you two arguing about before I got off the stage?"

Methos and MacLeod stared at Joe, then stared at each other. Then stared at Joe again.

"Nuttin', honey," they both replied with perfect timing.

Joe sighed, leaning back in his chair, momentarily defeated. He had a session with the Immortal search algorithms ahead of him tonight. Interference, after all, was an art form, and information was his best weapon. "Go on. Don't do what I wouldn't do. In my wildest imagination. Or if you do try that, make sure to stay away from the  
smoke detectors."

10.  
“Are you kicking us out, Joe?” Methos stuck out his lower lip.

“Bright boy!”

“Well so much for your tip!”

Joe laughed so hard he ended up choking.

“Can we have another beer if I tie MacLeod’s hands to the table?”

“How am I going to drink a beer with my hands tied to the table?”

“Oh alright, I’ll drink it for you.”

“A helpful sort, ain’t he.”

“I try.”

MacLeod stood, simultaneously hauling Methos to his feet.

“Hey! What —”

“Candy store!”

“Huh?”

“We need to run over to the candy store and get some chocolate, remember? We’ll come right back for your beer. Hey, I bet we’ll make it back before Joe’s next set. Come on now.”

“Youngsters! They need their candy. Tsk!” But he allowed himself to be dragged away.

“Later, Joe!” MacLeod had his friend out the door before Joe could utter a word.

“Don’t you think that was rather rude?”

“Joe understands.”

“I meant to me — hauling me out of there like some errant school boy headed for a spanking in the woodshed.”

MacLeod stopped abruptly. They’d made it no further from Joe’s door than half way across the parking lot toward the Thunderbird.

“Is that what you want?”

“No! You’re the one who needs to be punished! You’re the one who interfered and took a quickening for me. I’ve told you, Mac, you can’t fight my battles!”

MacLeod bit his own lower lip and forced himself to remain silent. He turned his face just so — so that Methos could see his expression in the light of the street-lamp.

Methos looked, and saw; fell silent. Sighed. “Where’s this candy shop you need to visit?”

“Very near. A quick drive.”

“OK. I guess you’ve waited long enough.”

With the top down it was easy to hop into the T-bird. In silence Mac drove them to a nearby park, one they had frequently walked through during the day. There was a certain bench in the middle of the small park. It was low, without a back; perfect.

“So this is the candy store?”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

Methos nodded. “Sit down, Duncan.”

He caught his breath but said nothing; quickly sat. Methos kneeled down in front of him in the short cut grass and placed each of his palms flat on each of MacLeod’s knees gently spreading his legs apart. “You’ve been a very naughty boy,” he said as he unbuttoned MacLeod’s jeans.

He hissed when a rather cold hand located his ridged member. “Methos!”

“Shush, Duncan. Silently.” Methos bowed his head to the task he had before him. MacLeod threaded his fingers through his lover’s short silky hair, worshiping the head that took his. A tongue as clever as the man who wielded it caressed him. Light, rough, then light again. No vein left unexplored.

MacLeod clamped one hand over his own mouth. Even so, tortured sounds over-flowed from his throat. Methos stopped to catch a breath and prolong Mac’s punishment.

“Alright kid, listen to me: I love you, stop fucking up. OK?”

MacLeod whimpered, nodded; it was all he could do. Methos blew warm air on the exposed flesh. A single lick. “Are you ready?” He nodded again. “Of course you’d agree to anything right now.”

“Methos!”

Methos reached up to cover the noisy mouth, and laughed, and laughed some more as he realized his outburst was as noisy as MacLeod’s.

“I think I better end this. Concentrate.” Once again the warm mouth of the most experienced man on Earth swallowed him to the root. MacLeod gasped in a lung full of cool evening air partially repressing his keen as he came. Methos continued to hum at his groin until MacLeod’s mixture of moaning and giggling roused closer inspection. “You OK, Duncan?”

“By all the — whatever — how do you do that?”

“The tongue is involved.”

“Come here, your drollness.” MacLeod pulled Methos into an embrace, kissing him on the forehead, nose, then mouth while attempting to wrestle his lover onto the bench. Somehow the slippery devil escaped him, and fled a short distance.

“Beer time!”

“Methos!”

“Hurry up, Mac. We’ll miss the next set.”

“But what about — ” MacLeod glanced longingly at the perfect bench, imagining Methos spread along it, stomach down. “You haven’t — ”

“Old and patient, MacLeod, old and patient.”

Seven minutes later they strolled back into Joe’s bar.

11.  
Joe edged through the crowd and ducked into his office, a bit aggravated at his Immortals. The band was clicking, the new songs were going over well, and searching for a new headhunter in town was a real buzzkill. The latest email on his list really put the cherry on top.

Kneissl had come to town. And according to Liane, his rather miffed Watcher, Kneissl hadn't been in town two hours before he waltzed into the dojo looking for 'satisfaction.'

It just didn't make any sense. Kneissl was way out of his territory. The guy was a playboy who followed the sun and snow circuit. He moonlighted as a ski instructor, and spoke with an Austrian accent (even though he came from Idaho.) Kneissl had a rep for entertaining his clients day and night and on into the morning. Kneissl was a partier, not a headhunter. In fact, though he was fit and fast, his record showed he had a talent for talking his way out of challenges.

So why had MacLeod met him in a dark alley off the docks, and taken his head?

Joe reviewed Liane's report. Her request for a timely answering report about the quickening from MacLeod's watcher was a not so subtle rebuke. Lapses like this could bring the regional coordinators down on him like a ton of bricks, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Liane knew that. Liane had been a Watcher on Cassandra for many years in Europe — she had been reassigned during the Horsemen debacle, and never quite forgave headquarters in general, and Joe in particular, for missing the events in the submarine base.

Now Joe would have to cobble together a late report, based on — nothing. Suppressing his aggravation, he closed his laptop as the band kicked in the start of the second set. They had a couple of their own songs they were trying out before Joe joined them on stage.

Joe surveyed the crowd from the darkness of the hallway, and spotted Methos and MacLeod just slinking into their seats. MacLeod looked windblown and giddy, yet oddly worried when he glanced at his companion. Methos...had damp grass stains on his knees.

At least they hadn't taken another head during the break. With a sword, that is.

Pensively, Joe approached the table, reminding himself that it was his job to Watch, not his Immortal’s job to make watching easy. Headquarters was his problem, not theirs. Jostled by the crowd as he came up behind them, Joe put a hand on Methos' shoulder, squeezing slightly to maintain his balance.

Methos' movement toward the hidden pocket of his jacket was so fast that Joe almost missed it. He squeezed again, warningly. "It's just me," he said shortly. Methos' shoulder was hard and stiff under his fingertips.

"You know better than to sneak up on a man like that," Methos said flatly, his eyes flashing.

"Sorry," Joe answered, not sounding particularly sorry at all.

Steadying himself, Joe leaned over the table to be heard over the band. "You boys have anything to tell me?"

Caught like a big moose in the headlights, MacLeod blinked. "The candy store was closed?"

Joe shook his head, and gave Methos a long, hard stare.

It took a few seconds before his eyes widened in answering comprehension.  
"KneisslCameByLookingForMeAndMacLeodShovedInAndTookHisHead?" he said all  
in a rush in a whisper nobody beyond the table could hear.

Joe nodded. That was enough, for now. Patting Methos on the shoulder, he straightened to return to the stage. "Details at 11:00, I hope." He said in parting, adding as an afterthought, "That is, if you can keep your hands off the gummy bears that long."

12.  
MacLeod watched Joe as he worked his way to the stage. The Immortal’s expression rapidly changed, a study of ideas finding their way home. “Kneissl.” He rolled the name around his mouth as if he were tasting a questionable whisky. “His name was Kneissl.”

“Yes, Mac. Nice to know the name of the voice skittering around in your brain.”

A perplexed expression settled on MacLeod’s face. “You knew him.”

“Bright boy.”

“You told him you didn’t know him, and that he should go away.”

“Sometimes it works. He was a jock not a rocket scientist.”

“What did he want you for?”

Methos eyed the Highlander thoughtfully. “Not something either of us needed to die for. An un-constant woman.”

“Who?”

“A mortal. It doesn’t matter now. I’d rather not go into the whole sordid tale twice. Let it wait until Joe finishes his set.”

“I wonder how Kneissl found you.”

“Yes, that’s the more interesting question. Something perhaps Joe can discover.”

“You know, I’m not sorry I interfered.” Methos nodded. “He would have kept coming back, and might have got lucky.”

“You know I hate it when you turn my words back at me.”

“I learned it from you.”

Shaking his head and almost smiling, Methos said, “Of all the important lessons you might gain from me, why do you only pick the annoying ones?”

“It’s a fair thing.” Seemingly turning his attention to the stage, under the cover of the table top MacLeod claimed a location for a hand on his companion.

13.  
Methos sighed, barely enduring MacLeod's spidery soft stroke. "What happened to your monkish self-control, Highlander?" The question became rhetorical as the stage lights came up on Joe and the band crashed into a hard-driving version of 'Little Red Rooster' that reeked of sex. Joe's eyes flashed gold under the lights, and Methos could have sworn he winked. "Oh, I'll get you for this, Dawson," he muttered. Still, the pulsing music now drew the surrounding customers out onto the dance floor, leaving a comfortable dark cushion around the Immortals.

MacLeod took advantage, leaning in to run his tongue just under his extremely sensitive ear. Methos' teeth clicked on air as MacLeod avoided a retaliatory nip with a dancing grin. Methos smiled slowly in return, as he contemplated a variety of vengeances. MacLeod's hand faltered, just a stroke, at the intensity of his gaze.

Without missing a beat, Methos took control. His fingers slid down MacLeod's thigh, a stroke here, a feather touch there. He leaned in, breathed hot on MacLeod's bare, corded neck. "I should take you back to the loft. But you can't even wait that long, can you? No, I'll just push you into the dojo. I'll take some of those jump ropes you keep around for roadwork, and tie you up to that high bench. Teach you some manners. Teach you some control..." Methos whispered, his slow words matching his slow, teasing strokes.

MacLeod shivered under his ungentling hand, and he brought his knees together to trap the intruder, his lust warring with his instinct for self-preservation.

"Oh, no, we can't have that, can we?" Methos chided softly, dangerously. "No, I'll have to get more ropes, won't I? Tie those disobedient hands and feet well apart. Just think of how tight your jeans will feel, stretched out, buttons holding you tight, and hot,  
and hard as the tang on your sword.

"I'll touch you, then. Little touches, like this, through the cotton. A little pressure here. A little rub. Ah. Yes. You like that." MacLeod's matching groan may have been heartfelt agreement or dire protest. Methos encouraged both.

"Presents are fun, MacLeod. I like to open my presents slowly. First, just your shoes. The left one first, I think," he said, thoughtfully tapping the sensitive spot behind the left knee. "You have beautiful feet, do you know that? We'll have to fully explore them. The curling toes. The Achilles hollow. Can you feel me finger the thin skin under the arch? Does it tickle?"

"No..." MacLeod stiffly lied, tucking his left foot under the chair, curling his toes reflexively.

Smiling, Methos moved on, his touch catching the beat in Joe's deep down dirty blues. One song would push MacLeod to the electric edge, another would draw a barely disguisable pulse in his hips or sudden arch in his spine. Methos was relentless, drawing out the fine, torturous details of his conquest with quite unholy glee.

"This shirt — I think we will have to leave the shirt on. The white silk sets off your body so nicely. The buttons, of course, will go." Deftly Methos plucked the top button away, holding it up for inspection before tossing it over his shoulder. "All of them, eventually," he promised as a single finger shadowed MacLeod's collar bone.

"But the jeans. They'll have to go. Pity, that. They do cup you so well. I once had a pair of doeskin leggings that...but that's another tale. The jeans. So tight. But I don't want to untie you, do I? There's nothing for it — I'll have to cut them loose. Don't worry. I'll be careful. Slow. Work up the seam. You won't move on me, will you? You'll be so open. Open and ready. Just for me."

Methos canted his head, pleased at the small sound MacLeod made in the back of his throat. Denial? Methos would not be denied. Torchlight and sacrificial fires danced in the gleam of his eyes, burning away all trace of civilization. "Maybe I'll shave just a little, here. Or here. It won't hurt. Just itch, just a little. A small reminder of our time together."

Then Methos drew back, as the house lights sprang up over the final roar of the crowd, leaving MacLeod blinking and boneless. He gave a friendly wave to Dawson, and another to the waitress. "Want a beer?" he asked courteously. "Of course you do."

MacLeod had only partly pulled himself together by the time his Watcher reappeared. "What did you do to Mac?" Dawson asked suspiciously.

"Told him a story," Methos said innocently.

"Funny, you never tell me stories like that," Dawson growled.

"You just wait," Methos promised.

Dawson skidded his chair a few more inches away, just to be on the safe side. "Well, until he comes out of his coma, you mind telling me about why this Kneissl guy was after you? And what kind of Immortal names himself after a ski, anyway?"

"Who says they didn't name the ski after him?" Methos answered loftily. "They named a beer after me in Greece."

"That's Mythos beer. Sheesh, next thing you know, you'll be claiming to have met Hercules. Oh wait, you already filled that square tonight."

"And a fine, strapping young lad he was, too."

"I'll give you a strapping..." Joe stopped at the peculiar look in MacLeod's eye. "Okay, meanwhile, back on the ranch, you crossed Kneissl somehow, and stole his girl?"

Methos looked alarmed. MacLeod looked — jealous. "No, of course not, I was just up in Sun Valley for the skiing. I like to keep in practice, check out the new gear. You never know when you might need to evade an army in the dead of winter. If the Finns had had 10,000 pairs of Teleskis in 1940, they might have conquered Europe."

"I suppose it beats strapping a set of reindeer ribs to your feet and hoofing it to Helsinki," Dawson agreed.

Methos gave him a sharp look. He thought he'd hid that chronicle. "So there I was, minding my own business, perfecting my apres-ski technique, when this woman practically flops into my lap."

"How rude," Dawson observed. "You might have spilled your beer."

"She bought the next round. Or three. Those mountain women can drink."

"Training at altitude, no doubt."

"Then I feel it."

"It?"

Methos glared. "It. One of us. Kneissl, as it turned out. He came into the bar, pulled the girl off the couch...and..."

"...and?" Dawson prodded.

"And he bought another round. That's it."

Dawson got the feeling that that was not quite completely It. "No sleepover ski waxing parties, no morning fits of jealousy, no swords at dawn?"

"Not even cocktail swords. We came, we saw, we went away. Or at least, I did. I caught the next flight out. Liane even drove me to the airport."

Dawson froze. "What's that name again?"

"Liane."

14.  
“Something wrong, Joe?” MacLeod asked, finally breaking out of the spell of silence that his lover had cast over him.

“No — no, just thinking.”

Methos’ eyes narrowed. “That can be dangerous, Joe”

Dawson forced a smile and retorted, “That must be what makes you such a dangerous guy, hmm?”

Methos closely watched Dawson’s face, catching sight of a tell-tale grimace. “Something you know about Liane that we ought to know?”

Joe shrugged. “Another ski bum. She travels in Kneissl’s circle, searching for the perfect powder.”

MacLeod frowned at Methos. “So maybe Kneissl came after you because Liane took an interest in you. Was he jealous?”

“No. It was all one big party scene in their crowd. Something changed with Kneissl between my departure from Idaho and his arrival in Seacouver.”

“As if he discovered something new about you. What did you tell Liane during the drive to the airport?” MacLeod asked.

“Me! Ha! You know me better than that.”

“Well it’s over now. Isn’t it, Joe?” MacLeod asked with a perfectly innocent expression.

15.  
Joe concentrated on the bubbles rising in his beer. If it had been just Methos, he would have told a lie in a heartbeat. Methos actively encouraged the practice. But under MacLeod's expectant gaze, lying made his soul twinge. "I'd love to say it is, MacLeod. I'll have to look into it some more. One thing is clear. Liane figured out Methos' destination at the airport. She knew you as Adam Pierson?"

Methos nodded slowly. "It's over time for an identity change. Some inquiries at the museum or the university could have connected MacLeod and I. Hell, maybe it was the dojo membership in my wallet. Remember that — never underestimate the curiosity of a woman the morning after."

MacLeod frowned at the unasked for advice, but Methos was staring at Joe.

"Can't argue there. But it's not as if I get the chance to practice SPS all that often," Joe allowed himself a self-deprecating smile.

"SPS?" MacLeod leaned forward, a bit jealous of Dawson and Methos sharing a joke without him.

"SPS," Dawson nodded, deadpan. "Safe Post Sex. Adam should have kept his wallet buttoned up in his pants. Along with some other key bits and pieces."

"It's not my fault the ski instructor had other talents," Adam protested. "I was distracted.”

MacLeod, who had been trying all night to undo those selfsame buttons, looked a bit betrayed. "I'll teach you to properly appreciate some talents," he promised. Or threatened. Joe couldn't quite determine which, though he felt the tension rise between Methos and MacLeod.

"Talent ebbs without practice. Just ask Joe," Methos needled.

"Leave me out of this, joker. I'm getting a contact horn on just watching you two fence," Joe said brusquely, almost immediately regretting his words. Sometimes honesty just got you a raft of shit.

"I know how to fix that, Joe. I'm sure MacLeod would lend a hand, too."

"Aye, for your health and well-being, it's our responsibility," MacLeod immediately agreed, his eyes now dancing merrily.

"You need to relax, Joe. Stop and smell the roses."

"I need to get back to work," Joe shot back. "And the last thing you two smell of is roses." Joe had no doubt that MacLeod was just joking. Methos he was far from sure of. Either way, he scowled his most ferocious scowl to cover his embarrassment, and turned the conversation again before it could devolve further. "It's motel thirty. You two are wrecking my concentration."

MacLeod looked slightly wounded. "You just aren't concentrating on the right things, Joe," he admonished. "You worry too much. We need to get you out more."

"Parts of you, anyway," Methos added charitably. "Come on, MacLeod.We have an appointment in the dojo. Practice, remember?" Methos reached out with a deceptively light grip and encircled MacLeod's wrist. He tugged, just once, and MacLeod rose, duster flaring, crowding into Methos' space.

"Practice, practice, practice..." MacLeod agreed, leaning down to pull Methos up by the lapels. In an intricate waltz of enticement and intimidation, the two swept out of the bar.

 

Left in the dust, Joe stared gloomily at his beer, not celebrating the fact he'd tracked the conversation away from Liane. There was a distance that could never be crossed between himself and the Immortals, and tonight he was feeling every inch of the gulf. And now Methos was talking about erasing Adam Pierson, and moving on. He had no doubt MacLeod could follow Methos to the ends of the earth, up into the steep secret valleys of Tibet or out on the wild horse plains of Mongolia. Maybe the white sands of Miguel Antonio. Or the Argentine pampas.

"I'll miss you when you're gone," he said softly to the dregs of his beer. Then he squared his shoulders and pushed up and away from the table. There was work to do.

And it was past time to call Liane in for a Watcher to Watcher talk. Joe made the rounds, making sure the staff had locked up for the night, and bent to blow out the last of the table candles before heading into the office.

"Freeze, Joe..." a musical voice floated out of the darkened hallway in the back. Chills ran up his neck as he straightened and reached for a gun that wasn't there. Joe never carried when he was playing with the band. Unfortunate, that.

"I said 'freeze', Joe. Do not move. Do not move at all." An ethereal form materialized at the end of the bar.

Even the breath caught in Joe's throat. The chills moved down his neck, sending tendrils around his spine, locking his legs, halting his hands. "Liane...," he managed to say. Even his vocal cords wanted to still. Liane, Kneissl's former Watcher. Cassandra's former Watcher.

And apparently, Cassandra's student, as well. The Voice. She had the Voice. Joe made a massive attempt to break out of the paralysis that froze his frame, but only set himself rocking on his inanimate prostheses. It took constant adjustment to balance himself in  
ordinary circumstances — now he was in danger of tipping over like a five tequila drunk.

Liane stalked up to Joe and glared malevolently up into his face. She was all of five foot nothing — Joe towered over her by a foot. Methos would have laughed his ass off. Murder by munchkin. Liane tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder and put a finger to his chest. The rocking motion increased. "Cassandra was everything to me. My Immortal. My teacher. My friend. You told MacLeod about the Watchers. MacLeod told Cassandra. I was banished, Joe. Cassandra thought I betrayed her. Do you know how that feels?"

Joe did, actually. "It wasn't safe, Liane," he whispered. "She was dangerous."

"Quiet!" Now, even Joe's vocal cords locked. He barely breathed as Liane wound herself up. "Of course she was dangerous. Wonderfully dangerous. With her, I didn't need to be afraid. Of anyone." Tears prickled at the edges of her eyes.

Mute and helpless, Joe instinctively tried to hold out a hand, but his best intentions were as beyond reach as his gun. At the edge of his memory a story haunted him, about a young woman Watcher attacked during a night vigil by a local gang. It happened. It happened more often than the Watchers admitted to themselves.

That would explain why Cassandra might take a young woman under her wing. It would even explain how she could teach her a few tricks of the Voice to defend herself.

Liane must have made a very apt pupil.

Now Liane had a lesson plan of her own. She picked up the guttering candle, and carefully tipped it, drawing a line of wax across the table and onto the floor. Then, holding the candle like a guiding orb, she walked in tight steps behind the bar, coming back with a bottle of 180 proof vodka. This wasn't a good sign.

"I know who he is, Joe. I know who you really watch. I saw Melanie's reports. Methos. The Fourth Horseman. Kneissl was supposed to lose to him. I was going to take his head while he was still weak from the quickening. Take his head right back to Cassandra."

Joe listened, sick at heart. Sick of the logic of killing. If Mac hadn't taken the challenge, Methos might be dead right now. Methos still could die — Mac wasn't immune to the Voice. And Liane — tiny Liane — Mac would never consider her a threat. This was his fault. He could have told his Immortals about Liane. He could have warned them.

"Did you know that people worry about you, Joe? They wonder about you living alone, above the bar. Living alone, drinking alone. It's not healthy. Something could happen to you, late at night, and no one would know."

Carefully, she splashed the vodka over the tabletop and let it pool, let it stream over the side onto the scuffed wooden floor. The sharp tang of alcohol stung his nose. The sharper stink of humiliation stabbed deeper in his gut. Harnessing all his rising fury, Joe gripped his cane. And moved. Just an inch. Maybe two. But he moved.

"No! Stop! Freeze!" Liane ordered. But now Joe could hear the fear behind her voice, and began to slowly unravel the knots keeping him still. Too slowly.

With a strength belying her size, Liane jumped forward and planted her palms hard in the center of his chest, sending him toppling like a dead tree. Stunned, blinking, the breath driven from his body, Joe could only watch as she lifted the candle high.

And smashed the guttering flame in the heart of the clear pool of alcohol.

16.  
A war waged in the oldest Immortal’s head. The advanced sniper scouts were seeking out the answers to a mystery, questions still formulating as they took pot-shots at the opposing reptile-brain forces charging toward orgasm.

By the light of a street lamp MacLeod watched the mask of ecstasy slip and fall from the face of Life, who had him pinned against his own car. Their long legs pleated together, MacLeod, though as accommodating as he could possibly manage, could see that the fire he had kindled in Methos was dying.

“Your turn to concentrate, Methos!” MacLeod covered the beer flavored mouth once again with his own, smothering the words of distraction he sensed were ready to erupt from his deep thinking friend.

Methos gently resisted the hand at the back of his neck holding him close for the kiss. “I almost remember!” He breathed against MacLeod’s mouth.

“What?” Their lips still close enough he could trace his partner’s with the tip of his tongue. He slid a hand down the lean body, applying smooth caresses as it traveled, in an effort to stop all that needless thinking.

“Something Liane said to me.”

MacLeod sighed. “It really isn’t the thing you know, to talk about another lover during sex.”

“We weren’t lovers.”

“Aw! You were bull shitting Joe again.”

“No, I believed it. She told me — on the way to the airport — to remember it that way, and to forget catching a glimpse of her Watcher tattoo.”

“Watcher! But how could a Watcher do that?”

“I’m not sure. Wait. I — I was a little hung over and she started talking to me on the drive to the airport. I told her it didn’t matter to me that she was a Watcher.” Methos sounded disgusted with himself. “She used the Voice on me! Five thousand years old! And I let some child whisper nonsense into my ear. Damn! No fool like an old fool. Damn!”

“Methos, did you tell her who you are?”

“I — I — ” he pressed his forehead against MacLeod’s, trying to remember. “Gods, I must have. That must be why Kneissl came hunting me. I’m sorry, Duncan, but I think we should go back inside and talk to Joe. I’ll make it up to you later.”

“You’re right, and you will, lover.” MacLeod gave him one more hungry kiss then allowed himself to be pulled back toward the bar. “So, this is why Joe looked guilty. He knew she was a Watcher.”

Methos squeezed his hand before letting go, then with MacLeod at his side they marched toward the bar. “Yes, but I bet he isn’t aware of her special skill.” Ten feet short of the door, “Do you smell that? Smoke!”

17.  
Joe managed to blink as the candle guttered, then caught with a whoomf, burning clear in the pool of high proof alcohol. The fire kindled between them, dancing, growing. A tendril of vodka touched Joe's sleeve, and flared. Flame crawled up a captain's chair, bubbling varnish and scorching wood. Liane's expression blurred in the smoke — was that triumph? Or shock?

And then, Liane ran.

And that, beyond anything else she had done that night, made Joe furious. This was his bar. She was burning down his bar!

There was no more Voice, now — just the crackle of cooking paint. With a mindless heave, Joe hauled his smoking sleeve away from the flames and rolled sideways until he crashed into another table. Smothering the burning bits of shirt under his chest, Joe took a deep breath to clear his head.

Bad idea.

Fumes caught in his throat, and he hacked hard, ducking his head away from the heat to find cleaner air. The fire was between Joe and the exits — he'd have to get up, or crawl around. Or — get the extinguisher next to the stage.

Fighting to shed the lingering paralysis left by Liane's commands, Joe inched on knuckles and elbows toward the stage, fueled by utter anger.

He was so focused on getting the pin pulled and the nozzle unhooked that he clouted MacLeod up over the ear in surprise when the Immortal grabbed his shoulder.

Nettled, MacLeod wrested the extinguisher away before the smoke-blinded bartender connected with a direct hit. "Methos, can you get him out of here?"

"Maybe I'll tie my shirt around his eyes, like in all those burning barn scenes," Methos observed as he heaved Joe to his feet and pushed a shoulder under his arm.

"That's horses," Joe scoffed between breaths.

"Close enough," Methos said acidly. "Only a horse’s ass would head away from the exit."

"Time to go, Joe," MacLeod calmly ran the fire extinguisher over the fire in low, even sweeps, clearing a safe path to the back door. Between lung rattling coughs, Joe swore every step of the way.

Before he got three steps out the door, Joe dug in his heels and tried to turn back.

"I need my guitar."

Methos got him turned around again, murmuring reassuring sentences. Soothing sentences. Sentences that kept mentioning the word 'hospital.'

"No hospitals. I'm fine. I gotta get the fans on. There's an extra one in the Green Room..."

"MacLeod will figure it out. He's really quite handy that way. Now, to get you sorted out, since I left my Tri-ox compound in my other suit, we could take a quick trip to the ER and..."

"Enough with the goddam hospital! I need my laptop."

Methos blocked Joe's way one more time, with a pained expression. "If you can yell that loudly, you must be getting better. But you aren't going back inside. In the T-bird, or no deal." Methos didn't like leaving Joe, but the laptop at least needed to be secured.

"Aright, aright, I'll get in the car. Just get my guitar. And the laptop." Joe paused for one more round of hacking. "And the bank! I need the night deposit!"

Methos walked back into the bar, shaking his head. It was amazing that he'd allowed Joe to live this long.

Joe almost immediately regretted folding himself into the T-Bird. Bendability wasn't his forte. He kept twisting his head, looking around at shadows, half convincing himself Liane was creeping up on him again. He rubbed his sooty hands on his pants to keep them from shaking. He looked around for a stray bar napkin he could shred into earplugs.

MacLeod kept an annoyingly clean car. And here he was shedding ash everywhere. Dawson was about to attempt an escape from the car when the return of the two Immortals foiled his plan. They showered him with gifts, including his laptop, guitar, deposit bag, coat, wallet, gun and cane.

"You all right, Joe? You look a little white around the gills..." MacLeod observed worriedly as he fired up the engine.

"Fine," Joe answered automatically, avoiding Methos' hard assessing stare. "I need to get back to traveling a little lighter," he added with a touch of sheepishness.

MacLeod's expression hardened. "She tried to burn you out."

"Maybe...," Dawson said doubtfully. "She must have been afraid I would turn her in for interfering." He didn't need to point out the irony. He straightened up. "You can drop me off at the taxi stand, I'll give you a call in the morning." Details about cleaning, sanding and painting were already crowding his head. And Liane. He had to do  
something about Liane.

Both MacLeod and Methos looked at him like he was sniffing Elmers.

"What?"

"Joe, we're going back to the loft. You're not in any shape to stay alone." MacLeod said reasonably.

Joe's jaw tightened. "I'm not helpless."

"Not now. But you were," Methos said softly. "She used the Voice on you, didn't she?"

Cut, Joe averted his eyes to the passing lights. After a long silence, he answered belatedly, "Yeah, about that. I was going to tell you to look out for that Cassandra mojo and maybe get some earplugs. You're probably immune, though. She's not Cassandra."

It was Methos' turn to avert his eyes. "On the contrary. Liane is apparently quite a talented student. And learning fast."

There was another long silence. MacLeod looked at Joe in the rearview mirror. "Where would you feel safe, Joe? We know Liane knows about the loft. We could get a suite at the Empire Arms."

Methos shook his head. "The staff would be too easily influenced."

Reluctantly, Joe spoke up. "I have a place. It's off the Watcher rolls. Head up Pimlico Avenue. And you even get your own room."

"Joe! You had a secret hideout, and you didn't tell us?" Methos was delighted. "I'm so proud."

"Smack him for me, willya, Mac?" Joe settled back in the seat and closed his eyes. He was never going to hear the end of this.

Chapter 3

 

18.  
As MacLeod chauffeured them away from the scorched bar, Methos leaned forward from the backseat and spoke directly into Dawson’s ear. “Joe, I want you to stay awake for awhile.” His voice was soothing, but also commanding. “Tell me if you feel nauseous. Do you feel a bit confused? This is important. OK?”

Dawson sighed. With Methos in full doctor mode there wasn’t much point in arguing, or trying to sleep. Methos would have his way. So he started the conversation he dreaded, yet was so damned curious about that he had to have an answer. “So how does a mortal have this ability? How can Liane have the Voice?”

“Why do some people have perfect pitch? Or a strangely calming effect on animals, while others can’t carry a tune in a stein with a lid on it, and get bit for their effort? Being mortal or immortal doesn’t matter.”

Dawson shook his head. It was nice that it only hurt a little. “And it worked on you too.”

“Yes, Joe. I’m just a guy. I keep telling you, but you never listen.”

“A regular guy doesn’t survive fifty centuries by being vulnerable to someone with a warble in their voice.”

“Well there is my charming personality to protect me.”

Joe laughed freely without coughing. Methos nodded approval. Good, good.

“Was it because you were drunk?”

Methos was grateful for the darkness hiding the chagrin on his face. “I suppose. I certainly would never do any drinking around Cassandra.”

“And you trusted this Kneissl fellow?”

“Well he was a lot drunker than I was.”

MacLeod turned onto Pimlico. “Joe?”

“All the way to LaTrek, then hang a right.”

“Oh, he’s down by the water. Been holding out on us.” MacLeod’s voice was practically leer. “A little love nest on the shore?”

“No, mister one-track-mind. It’s the result of carefully saved funds from the bands last couple CDs, if you must know.”

MacLeod laughed taking Joe’s grist with joy. “Good for you, choir boy. You two hungry?” He asked as he pulled into a twenty-four hour Asian take-out place. “Extinguishing fires makes me hungry.” Without waiting for either of his passengers to answer, MacLeod jumped out of the T-bird in search of sustenance.

“The laird has spoken and we shall eat.” Methos said, then, “Well Joe, you could have warned us about Liane.”

“Yeah, yeah. None of us are perfect.”

“I suppose not. Yet some of us are more equal —.”

“Shut up, Methos.”

“We’re going to have to deal with her. Best to discuss this while the boy scout is absent.”

“Let me deal with it. My people will take care of it.”

“You have minions, Joe?”

“And you don’t?”

“Heavens no. I am a minion.”

“Sure you are.”

“Let me know, Joe.”

“No.”

Methos sighed. Joseph Dawson was the king of stubborn mortals. Their boy scout soon returned with many bags of fodder, which he piled next to Methos.

“Stay out of them!”

“Yes, master.” MacLeod cuffed him upside the head, then clamored back into the driver’s seat and pealed out again; rattling down LaTrek. At a row of modern  
condos overlooking the bay, Joe instructed, “Number 3.” And MacLeod turned in the driveway. “Nice.”

The first floor entrance sported a ramp edged with brilliant Red Tide azaleas — suddenly visible when the motion sensor lights flared on at their approach. It took his immortals a couple trips to unload Joe’s salvaged belongings.

The apartment was rather new and it was obvious Joe hadn’t spent much time there yet. An old classical guitar and a framed photograph of Amy hung on the wall. There were also a few touring posters circa the 1960s, including the Jimi Hendrix Experience, Janis Joplin and the Holding Company and Howlin Wolf. Methos stood for a moment staring at a RFK campaign poster. The furniture was simple but solid. The ground floor was an open plan with living room, kitchen and dining room together. There was a small lift installed near the stairway. In the back a bedroom and a bathroom were on either side of a large sliding glass door which led out onto a deck over looking the bay.

MacLeod placed the take-out cartons on the bar of the kitchen island and searched the cupboards for plates, discovering he’d have to settle for heavy paper plates embossed with holly.

“Haven’t spent a lot of time here yet. Amy came at Christmas. Said next time she’d take a few extra days and set things up a bit. The upstairs is hers. She was the last one to sleep in the bed; ’fraid I haven’t changed the sheets, but I can guarantee she’s a whole lot cleaner than either of you are right now.”

MacLeod smiled and said, “That’s fine, Joe. I’ll take a hint and hit the shower.”

In the kitchen Methos found a white paper towel which he folded and brought to Dawson. “Joe, before we eat I’d like to do a little test on you. I’m sure you’re fine, but the old time doc in me wants to be sure. Please spit on this.” He handed Joe the paper towel.

Dawson stared at him for a moment. “Sure.” Did as asked. MacLeod shrugged at his askant glance.

Methos examined the color of Joe’s sputum, nodded, satisfied. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Methos immediately changed gears, popped over to the refrigerator. “Got any beer?” Checking out the contents. “Well good! If you’re only going to have one thing in your refrigerator let it be beer.”

He passed out three bottles from the solitary six pack, and they sat at the bar to devour the contents of the many cartons. Some were identifiable, “Aw! Mongolian Beef,” and some remained a mystery, “Interesting!”

After eating MacLeod melted away to the upstairs bedroom, and Methos hung around downstairs keeping an eye on Joe, wanting to offer help if needed, but only to the degree Dawson would allow. He judged that his mortal friend, though exhausted, suffered no damage during the evening’s excitement that a night of rest would not mend. Therefore healer intervention was uncalled for.

“Well, Joe, what are we going to do about Liane?” Joe screwed his face up thunderously, but before he could get a word in, “No! Don’t give me that Watcher business crap again. You know we’re not going to butt out, so why fight if?”

Dawson frowned at Methos, shook his head, grumbled, “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“As you like. Remember, Joe she could have killed you.”

Much to Methos’ surprise no retort was forth coming. Joe looked deep in thought. “You’re not alone, Joe.”

Dawson nodded. “I’m going to call it a night now.”

Methos watched his tired friend retreat to his bedroom.

Silent as a shadow Methos slipped upstairs and slid in under the sheets next to MacLeod, careful not to wake him. It was a good day to be over.

 

A bit after dawn Methos sensed eyes watching him, or maybe it was the hand tickling the gap between his tee shirt and boxers that brought him around to wakefulness.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Good morning, Methos.”

The oldest shivered. There was something about the way MacLeod said his name that undid him. “Good morning, Duncan. Has that nasty quickening settled in?”

“Much better, thank you for asking.”

With a hand tucked around the waist band of Methos’ boxers, MacLeod ran the top of his fingers across the flat stomach and navel. The shuddering response was exactly what he hoped for, and the deep growl more. Somewhere between the first and fourth growl he had palmed his lover’s firm length, causing Methos to rock with sudden urgency until MacLeod withdrew and held down the moving hips.

“No!”

“Shh. Shh. Hold still. Roll over.”

“Hold still! Roll over! Which is it, cruel Scot?”

“You left out ‘shh’!”

Methos’ sigh was deep and dramatic, a sigh that a stage actor would have been proud to heave.

MacLeod chuckled. “I’m sorry, Methos.”

“Oh, this must be my blanket apology?” He asked crisply.

MacLeod yanked the covers over Methos’ head, “Why yes, it is.” Then he forced him to roll over onto his stomach. Quickly he pulled down Methos’ boxers, exposing lovely cheeks to gentle nips and appreciative fondling. Soon MacLeod molded himself to his lover, supporting him with arms wrapped around his waist. This fine position allowed for the worship of Methos hardness while his own cradled between his partners cheeks, waiting.

He never knew how long the waiting would be with Methos. Could be no waiting at all, or could be sometime tomorrow before he’d be ready. Fortunately Duncan had special skills he’d learned somewhere along the way. He also had real empathy for his lovers.  
What Methos needed was to stop thinking. Not so easily done as it was for the vast majority of people. Methos gears kept spinning long after they should have ceased.

“The first time I saw you I knew exactly who you were. And where you belonged. Right here. And where I wanted to be.” He moved his hand up to Methos’ chest, resting it over his heart.

“Duncan —.” He sighed.

MacLeod moved slowly over the body he covered. His hardness shared, but not yet given. “I want you!”

“No —.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Methos gasped. “Duncan! Oh gods!”

MacLeod began to worry his lover’s center. Hold on, where did I —.” MacLeod rocked them toward the edge of the bed, reaching out and snatching the hand lotion he’d placed there the night before. Quickly he coated his fingers, then touched Methos gently, then insistently. First soft, then rough, then soft again. When he entered Methos warm body it was liberating, not dominating and together they found a rhythm that shattered physical constraints and released their souls. And they came.

Later Methos asked, “I hope we weren’t as noisy as I think we were.”

“No, we were quiet as mice.”

19.  
Joe eased into the empty bedroom and exhaled slowly. Keeping up appearances in front of two canny Immortals took its toll. He glanced down at his right hand, then turned it over to expose the fricasseed sleeve. The hairs on his forearm were singed, and the skin was red, but he saw no real damage. It just stung like hell.

He glanced longingly at the bed, but opted for easing into his backup chair instead. There was a mile or two to go before sleep was an option. Besides, the smoky smell that had seeped into his clothes and hair and skin would keep him up all night, anyway.

Unstrapping his prostheses took longer than usual. He rolled down the hall and was hanging the smoky clothes out on the deck when he realized that he'd forgotten his gun, and he was very nicely sky-lighted against the hall lights. "I should dock my own pay for  
that kind of rookie mistake."

He snapped off the lights, then double-checked the arming of the security system as well as each window and door. Gathering his computer, gun and cell phone, he rolled to the desk in his room to begin the touchy process of trying to determine which of his people  
might have been already influenced by Liane's wiles.

Huddling into a thick hooded sweatshirt, occasionally shivering against a nonexistent breeze, Joe plotted every Watcher who had co-reported with Liane, and their cohorts. Did the Voice work over cell phones? Skype? What about videoconferencing?

After a few very careful inquiries, Joe relaxed somewhat. Apparently the Voice didn't digitize well. Just as well. Roland would have been a holy terror as a televangelist. But that didn't mean Liane hadn't insulated herself with some personal contacts inside or outside the Watchers.

Joe had a momentary vision of Voice-addled Watcher zombies stalking him. No...stalking Methos. Joe had just gotten in the way. Frowning, he leaned forward and punched up a new contact number on the laptop. Before he punched it in, he activated GarageBand, and lay down a dull, angry e-flat in the background.

He bared his teeth in his fighting grin as he uploaded the number. "How's it going, Liane?" he drawled into the cell phone.

"Dawson?"

"Surprised?"

"I shouldn't be," Liane shot back.

"What, no apologies? It's bad enough you burned me up...my dance floor isn't ever going to be the same."

"You were..no. You were rescued. You weren't burned up. I saw you walk out. From the roof."

Joe left her hanging on that sentence. He knew the uses of an artful silence.

"I saw you!" she finally repeated, with a touch more panic.

"Yes. You saw me. And I think we have to talk about that, Liane. Because I can't have you spreading around rumors. Not about supposedly seeing Methos. Adam is under my protection."

"But...Adam is Methos. The Methos Chronicles said that Cassandra positively identified Methos. At MacLeod's."

"I visit MacLeod's all the time," Joe teased. "And I write the reports." Deliberately, he changed the subject. "So...did Cassandra send you to burn me out?"

"No! I came on my own. For her. If I prove myself to her, she'll take me back. I know it."

"And what? Initiate you into the mysteries? Make you the next witch of Donan Woods? You're a Watcher. She'll never trust you."

"She will if I take her Methos' head!"

Joe dropped his voice to a warning hiss. "You missed your chance, Liana. And you missed your target. Let me leave you with one question — if the real Horseman Methos could resist Cassandra's voice, how could you possibly fool him? You couldn't even fool me."

Joe let the question hang for four seconds, and then thumbed the phone off. He leaned back, reviewing the conversation. He hoped that he had shot enough holes in her assumptions to make her doubt her target.

Methos was known to be the architect of some of the biggest fibs in the Watcher Chronicles. Especially his own. Maybe he could get her to believe the biggest fib of all. That Adam was just another imposter.

And that Joe Dawson was Methos.

 

MacLeod stirred as he heard the shower start downstairs. "Joe's up early," he said with a slight frown. "I should make breakfast."

"Joe's up late," Methos said, giving MacLeod a warning tweak. Leaning back into the warm Scot, he wasn't yet ready to relinquish his pectoral pillow. "Liana put a fair-sized dent in his self-respect. Having to endure being rescued by his Immortals? Mortifying. Let him provide the bread and salt in his own tent this morning. He'll feel better."

MacLeod tweaked Methos in return. Much lower. "I thought I was his Immortal. Me. No stealing my Watcher. Mine." He let dark menace vibrate in his voice, and captured Methos' arms before he got pinched in a place that would really hurt.

"You keep losing him. Finders keepers." Methos retaliated by wriggling. Wriggling could be a science. Methos elevated it to an Art. A touch of struggle, a hint of rebellion, a taste of denial.

MacLeod arched in renewed need as Methos maddeningly tickled his inner thigh with just the tips of his fingers. Locking his legs around Methos', he forced the long limbs apart and reached down for his prize.

"Finders, keepers..."

 

While he dressed, Joe glanced at the ceiling and calculated the cost of installing more soundproofing. It helped suppress the unexpected sting of loneliness. Ruthlessly, he wrote it off as low sinful jealousy and a mark of weak character, just like his grandmama said at Sunday dinners.

Now his grandmama's ghost reminded him of the Laying Out Of The Towels ceremony that he had shamefully neglected for his guests the previous night. Methos would have to do with Amy's rose-edged set upstairs. That image gave Joe a belated smile.

He slapped a loose gauze over the small blisters on his forearm, buttoned up his shirt cuffs, and hauled himself up for another day. Coffee would be involved. Lots of coffee.

There was bacon in the freezer and chili in the cupboard. Some eggs hiding down in the crisper that weren't too out of date. By Immortal standards, anyway. Setting the chili to simmer and the bacon to drain, Joe settled onto the sofa in the front room to wait for his  
Immortals. They seemed to be taking quite some time in the shower.

Joe fell asleep calculating how long it would take to use up the condo's hot water supply.

20.  
Liane wore diamonds, only diamonds. The petite brunette had a diamond chocker around her tiny throat and wore bracelets, an anklet, and earrings all of diamond — except for one ruby at her navel. Joe was helpless to do anything but stare. He wanted to reach out and touch the ruby but when he tried the ruby became flame spreading all around him. He shouted himself awake.

While MacLeod finished the shower they had started together, Methos stepped out and dried off with a fluffy pink towel. Since it was the only one visible he hung it back up for Mac and then started a little investigating of the premises when he heard Joe hollering downstairs. He grabbed his sword and bounded down the stairs, dashing to the living area to find Joe on the couch shaking his head and running a hand through his silver hair.

“You’re alone?”

“You’re naked.”

Methos hefted his broadsword. “No, I’m not. Normally when I hear someone shouting like that I assume they’re under attack.”

“I — never mind. Get dressed will ya!”

“OK, Joe!” Methos grin was supercilious. He pranced back upstairs, naked except for his sword and attitude. At the top of the stairs he looked back over his shoulder at Dawson whose mouth was slightly open and eyes rounded following the lean nude’s ascent (sword jauntily used as cane). “Joe, I think the chili’s burning.”

In the mean time, MacLeod had slipped from the shower as soon as he felt Methos leave the room so he could make that call. After a successful morning of extracting information from Methos the need for action over whelmed the Highlander. He needed answers. Wondering what time it was in Scotland, about four in the afternoon he would guess without looking as a clock, as he hunted his phone. Once located in the pocket of his smoky jacket he punched in contact 13. Cassandra had plenty to answer for in his estimation.

Near the bedroom door Methos caught the tail end of a conversation, “…you’d better! If you want to save her.” MacLeod closed the link as he walked into the room.

“Mac?”

MacLeod didn’t even consider lying to Methos. "I called Cassandra.”

Methos gaped at MacLeod, then replied, “Of course you did.” He leaned his sword against the wall, deciding it was better not to be holding it for this conversation.

MacLeod took a breath and began, “She needs to clean up this mess. Otherwise the Watchers will kill Liane. She’s obviously mentally unstable. How we treat the mentally ill reflects what we are.”

“Nice speech, Mac. You can tell that one to Joe. I’m out of here.” He started hunting for his clothing. MacLeod was at his side in a heartbeat and grabbed his arm to still him, then let him go, but did not back away. “No. Not this time. You won’t leave Joe, even if you would leave me.” MacLeod’s eyes filled with water, but he maintained a stern visage for long seconds, completely focused on Methos.

“You’re a manipulative —" He pulled Methos into his arms. “bastard,” whispered against his neck. “Joe’s going to kick your butt.” Methos slipped out of the embrace.

"Perhaps. But how do you think he’d feel if he had to kill her?”

“She tried to kill him.”

“Aye. But Joe’s a sane man. A good man.”

Methos sighed. “I wonder how Cassandra will fit into Joe’s plans. Maybe I should take you both on a nice long trip to Tibet. I know this peaceful monastery, we’ve managed to keep out of Beijing’s clutches. A little long term meditating will do you both good.”

“I’d get us thrown out in no time.” He pulled Methos to him again.

“I’m angry with you.”

“Aye. I know. Perverse bastard that I am, it tends to turn me on. Sorry. Tessa would pummel me a good one for it. Would that make you feel better?”

“Pummeling you?” Another sigh of dramatic proportions. “Briefly. But what would really satisfy me is both you and Joe spending more time thinking before you come up with these schemes.”

“What scheme has Joe hatched?”

“I don’t know particulars, but I know.”

“Reading minds again.”

“Just faces.” Methos touched his cheek for a moment, then walked away. It was impossible to have a proper argument with MacLeod without clothes on.

21.  
The heat of embarrassment wakened Joe fully as Methos waltzed upstairs. Joe had grown up with a locker room etiquette that frowned mightily on admiring glances. In the Marines, he'd have gotten his ass kicked for staring like that. No matter that Methos' musculature rivaled Michelangelo's David for wanton beauty.

Rather alarmed at the direction his thoughts were taking, Joe pushed himself up to go stir the pot. At least Methos hadn't had to rescue the chili. No naked cooking. Not in Joe's kitchen. As he got some onions started in the sauté pan and beat up some defenseless eggs, Joe ruminated on the symbolism in his dream. The terror he understood too well--it was a variation on a theme he'd had since Vietnam. The diamonds confused him--riches, or trappings? He hadn't felt drawn to the dream or the real Liane--if anything, he was faintly repelled by the weight of her obsessions.

But the ruby....it called to an empty place in his heart...before the fire flared up to destroy him.

Passion. Betsy. Lauren. The old burn scars ran too deep for Joe to carry that fire again.  
Long past time to change gears and act like a proper host. "There's more towels down here, if you want," he yelled up the stairs. "And hey, if your clothes smell like burnt bar furniture, I've got some jeans and things stored in the spare bedroom up there. You can wash your designer duds down here before the neighbors see you and call the fashion police."

"Thanks, Joe!" came a muffled voice from above. MacLeod.

"Can I wear your letter jacket?"

"Sure!" Joe grinned. The raw wool jacket was designed to keep a person warm in a Chicago wind. Methos' neck would start itching in minutes.

Joe had the eggs and cheese on the table by the time they made it down the stairs, with plenty of chili and coffee on the side. MacLeod looked slightly apologetic in his old Chicago State sweatshirt, while Methos preened in the letter jacket and an old St. Francis Academy buttondown with school crest. "Didja forget the bobbysox?" Joe said disparagingly, though Methos was pulling off the sixties high school look with scary aplomb.

MacLeod dumped their clothes in the Maytag, adding Joe's levis from where they hung on the deck. He frowned at the scorched shirt and shot a suspicious look at Joe, who ignored him completely.

"Eat, before it gets cold."

The Immortals exchanged looks and for once obeyed without backtalk, making large inroads on the food and coffee, to Joe's temporary relief.

In turn, Joe picked at his breakfast, mulling over his options, or lack of them. Finally he pushed his plate away, and leaned back with his coffee, brooding. It was time to throw plan B on the table and see what the troops made of it. "Mac...What would you say Ceirdwyn's relationship with Cassandra is?"

"Friendly," MacLeod answered cautiously.

"Verrry friendly," Methos added helpfully. "Why?"

"We need a go-between. Someone who can talk to Liane safely as well as convince Cassandra to take her back under her wing. Liane won't trust a man. Not even MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, at this point."

"Handsome, thoughtful devil that he is," Methos nodded. "In fact, MacLeod thought of something this morning." Methos stared, daring him to speak.

"Joe...I already called her."

"Ceirdwyn?" Joe asked, confused. How did the Highlander get so far ahead of him?

"Cassandra. This morning. She'll be on the next plane over."

"Oh." A creeping cold hand stroked Joe's spine as he looked over to Methos for belated guidance.

"Don't look at me, I was down here slaying your nightmares."

"Oh." No help there. "You have to get out of town, then." Joe stared at the tablecloth, trying to see the future. Cassandra distrusted Watchers in general, or she wouldn't have chucked Liane out of her coterie in the first place. There was certainly no love lost between Joe and the witch of Donan Woods. "Maybe you should both get out of town." Joe imagined Cassandra envisioning poor, tiny Liane pursued by a Horseman and a pack of bloodthirsty Watchers.

Back to Plan A, then.

"Well, then, laundry's about done," he said brightly, pushing himself to his feet. "I'll get it in the dryer, and you can be off. If you can drop me off at the bar, I'll get going on repairs."

22.  
"D&M Bar Reconstruction, at your service," MacLeod announced brightly, then popped up to give Joe a hand.

"MacLeod! I'm perfectly capable -- ouch!" MacLeod had 'accidentally' grabbed Joe's wrist in his attempt to help fling clothes in the dryer.

"How bad is it, Joe?"

Methos strolled over to the scene, put on the good doctor's mask, and firmly insinuated himself between his friends before Joe found it necessary to clobber MacLeod with his injured arm. He urged Joe away from the clothes dryer and back to his couch, leaving the laundry task to Mac.

As he uncovered the damaged arm and discovered Joe had managed to hide a painful wound, Methos cussed softly in Latin, sure that Joe's training would clue him in. "You've taken good care of it, Joe, but it's going to hurt like a burn today."

"Imagine that."

"I'll write you a scrip for a kick-ass painkiller." While Methos carefully replaced the bandage he asked, "How badly does MacLeod's call to Cassandra mess up your real plan?"

Joe laughed. "Couldn’t you both just go away for awhile?"

"That bad."

"Well let's see, I managed to instill in Liane doubt as to your identity, then MacLeod calls one of the few people who can confirm you're Methos."

"How did you do that?"

"Never mind! You need to disappear for a while."

"And miss out on all the fun! Watching you and MacLeod mastermind --"

"Methos!" Joe interrupted, "Usually running is your first option. What are you thinking, or what are you thinking with?"

"My first option is to do nothing. It's almost always the most appropriate --"

"Bull shit! You're just too much in heat to think straight. My plan requires you to be Adam. Cassandra will ruin that."

"Adam? I can do Adam. Maybe Mac could tell Cassandra he changed his mind and that we'll handle it on this end. In truth I'd just as soon wait another three thousand years for our next visit."

MacLeod had returned from his chore and was listening thoughtfully to the discussion. "Joe, you and I agree Cassandra might be able help Liane."

"Yes, but I was thinking of taking her to Cassandra, maybe with an intermediaries help, not bringing Cassandra here." Joe and MacLeod both glanced at Methos.

"She'll be here soon. I can't call her off now. And as for Liane I was thinking along the lines of a lock down mental health facility.

Joe asked, "Is this a hypothetical facility?"

"No." MacLeod answered. "It's over the border in BC. A good place. A friend of mine stayed there for awhile."

Methos suggested, "Perhaps we could get Cassandra credentials for this facility."

Joe nodded and pointed a thumb Methos' direction. "Might work if he can stay out of Cassandra's way."

23.  
“However,” Joe added ruefully, “we can't drop her off in BC with a handkerchief in her mouth. And without 24/7 supervision Liane could talk her way out any time. Even Geneva would be safer than that, and I wouldn't wish Geneva on anyone." Joe shuddered faintly. He was _not_ going to tell MacLeod about that stint in Geneva.

"That's also assuming, of course, that Cassandra doesn't think Liane has actually hit on a dynamite plan," Methos frowned thoughtfully. "Can you imagine her training up a whole squad of mortal Voices? They could pick off Immortals for Cassandra one by one. She'd never have to break a nail in a fight again."

MacLeod looked vexed. "Cassandra isn't capable of that."

Methos inhaled, but it was Joe who answered. "That lady lived through a lot of bad road, and it wasn't her fashion sense that saved her from witch hunters. And some of them were MacLeods," he pointed out evenly. "I don't think I have to remind you of Crazy Tom."

MacLeod didn't have an answer for that. He still remembered Crazy Tom MacLeod and his stories of running afoul of the Donan Witch. Tom never was right after that.

"Well, we can talk and work at the same time," Joe said practically. "I need to get the bar open, and we're burning daylight."

"We also need to locate Liane, Cassandra or no Cassandra," Methos pointed out logically.

Joe allowed a tilted grin. "That won't be a problem. You weren't the only one making a few calls this morning, Mac. I'll take care of hunting her down."

MacLeod's face lost all expression. "Watcher hunters won't solve this, Joe. They'll just end it."

Joe stilled. "Yeah. I know. I figured that out all by myself." He shrugged Methos’ hand from his shoulder and headed to his bedroom. "That's why I'm keeping the rest of the Watchers the hell out of this," he snapped off over his shoulder.

"Now you've done it, MacLeod. Joe won't slow down for hours, not on that head of steam." Methos stared down the corridor as if he wanted to follow, but flexed his fingers and slowly began refolding one of Joe's shirts, instead.

"He's taking too much on himself." The weight of MacLeod's own clannish sense of responsibility shadowed his face.

"He's taken everything we've left in his lap over the last decade, when it came to the Watchers. That which doesn't kill him, makes him denser."

"I heard that..." Joe thumped out of his room, now carrying in his left hand a satchel stuffed with his laptop, the bank bag, and something that clinked like glass. His coat hung low on one side where he'd packed an extra gun. "Let's sit down."

"What do you have there, Joe, a stirrup cup?" Methos needled as Joe set up glasses and pulled a dusty bottle out of his pack.

"Those are only served up by fair maidens, I thought," Joe said as he studiously poured each a half measure.

"And your point?"

Joe didn't even look annoyed at the slur. "Try it. It's a family...favorite." He clinked glasses with his Immortals, looking them each in the eye before taking a small sip and savoring the burn. "Slainte' mha."

"Slainte' mhor," MacLeod's eyes widened at the taste. "You don't carry this at the bar."

Joe shrugged. "No." It was a family thing. "Now. Time to get one thing straight. Liane is my problem. I re-upped with the Watchers for a reason and taking care of rogues like her comes with the territory."

"Yes, just why did you re-enlist again?" Methos asked, with a suspicious glance at MacLeod. "You never did say."

"Not your concern then. Not your concern now." Joe spoke placidly, meeting Methos' gaze steadily. He didn't look anywhere near MacLeod.

"What do you plan to do, Joe?" MacLeod finally asked directly, before the silence between them stretched too long.

"I'm going to go fix the bar. You're welcome to tag along. Liane's going to have been up all night, wondering what we're doing. We'll keep her wondering, let her wear herself down. Then, I'm going to go find her and talk her in. Maybe, just maybe, we can settle this without a funeral. I'm getting too damn tired of funerals."

"Even yours?" Methos shot across Joe's bow.

Joe only winced a little. He dug into his pocket and tossed a couple of plastic packages at Methos and MacLeod. "Earplugs. I use them for the loud concerts. You can still make out words and sounds, but the highs and lows are tamped down. Might help."

Methos frowned and stuffed them into his jeans pocket. MacLeod fingered them thoughtfully. "I'll be picking up Cassandra at the airport at 9:45 tonight," he offered.

"Good. We have a time frame, then. If my part goes well, we may even be able to meet you two directly, somewhere quiet. Safe." And well away from Watcher eyes, Joe added to himself.

"And what's my role in your campaign, Field Marshall Dawson?" Methos asked tartly.

Joe sighed. "Having a beer at the bar. Cassandra hates the bar. And keeping a couple more on ice for Mac and me, I hope," Joe smiled his mostly harmless smile. "Unless you feel a change in climate is in order. I hear Tibet is nice this time of year."

24.  
Methos insisted that their fiirst stop be a pharmacy to fill a prescription written by the good Dr. Adams for codeine, in case the pain of Joe’s burn became too much for ibuprofen to remedy. Joe didn’t quite snarl when he dropped the container into his hand, but he did pocket the pills. Methos blamed MacLeod’s influence. Joe’s language tended to be a lot more colorful when MacLeod wasn’t looking over his shoulder.

Their second stop was at a hardware store where they procured sandpaper, brushes, paint, varnish and turpentine. Joe already had a plentiful supply of cleaning potions at the bar, though he had brought along a few extra rags from the condo. And a raging attitude — he carried a hefty supply of that, always good for a big clean up job.

As they drove to the bar, MacLeod commented again, “I don’t see any way the paint and varnish will be dry by tonight. You’re going to have to keep the bar closed until tomorrow at least, Joe.”

Dawson sighed in disgust. “Yeah, I know.”

MacLeod parked the T-bird near the back door to make unloading the supplies convenient.

The acrid smell hit them first, reminding them what tragedy had almost occurred there. MacLeod went to the breaker box and turned the electricity back on. He had turned it off last night as a precaution. The bar was worse than they remembered. “Make that a couple of days.”

As Dawson surveyed the damage he said, “Maybe Methos was right about the electric sander.”

“Nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix,” MacLeod replied. He quickly busied himself nailing sheets of sandpaper to wood blocks. On his face was the type of smile found only on fellows who loved remodeling.

“Guess I can’t complain about an enthusiastic work crew. I’m going to call the staff and let them know we’ll be closed a couple days.”

Joe stepped into his office to make his calls, while the Immortals first swept and then began the tedious job of sanding down the wooden floor. On hands and knees they started from opposite sides of the burned area and worked toward the middle.

“You’ve been quiet this morning,” MacLeod said as he sanded.

Methos shrugged. “I’m just trying to figure out how this can work, with everyone alive and happy.”

“Well there’s your trouble. Forget about happy. Just concentrate on alive,” Mac said with a thick Scots burr.

“I suppose you’re right.” Methos nodded.

“Hey, I better write this day down on a calendar.”

“Brat.”

“Where are you going to go when Cassandra gets here?”

Methos hadn’t come up with an answer by the time Joe returned from his office.

Dawson cued up some “work music” on his bar’s audio system and the three of them settled down into the labor intensive task. Joe undertook the jobs he could do standing or sitting, leaving the “on hands and knees” to his friends. He threw out two chairs as unsalvageable and one table. Then proceeded to strip the peeled varnish on other chairs before applying new. “Could have been worse.”

Methos grumbled something in a language that Joe did not need to known to understand the meaning, Yes, you could have died!

Twice during the long afternoon Joe urged Methos to make himself scarce. Methos’ responses had been quiet grumbling and shrugs.

Periodically hunger demanded breaks for sustenance and so Dawson would make sandwiches in the kitchen. While out of their hearing, he would make calls. He'd let the phone ring until voice mail picked up, then leave long, slow messages in a calm, conversational tone, just out of the Immortals' earshot. At other times, he just listened, expressionless.

Methos watched silently as Joe dropped two beers and a couple of sandwiches on the table and announced, "Guys I hate to do this, but I have a problem with Regional that I'm going to have to settle before it comes down to pistols at dawn."

"Lousy joke, Dawson," MacLeod said, sternly, not amused.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just red tape. I'll be back as soon as I can. If it all works out, I should have the lead you need to find Liane for Cassandra."

They watched Joe walk away, obviously stiff and uncomfortable even more than the norm. At the door he stopped and turned back to his speechless clean-up crew. "Don't follow me, okay? Some of the yahoos at Regional actually read the flyers and know what you look like." The door slammed behind him.

“Well. Was that an invitation or what? I’ll go out the back and —.”

“No.” MacLeod interrupted Methos. “You stay out of this. One target for Liane is enough. I’ll go.”

Methos glared at MacLeod’s back as he too rushed out the door. Methos stood by himself in the bar. He took a deep breath of the wet varnish and burnt wood atmosphere, and coughed. After a moment of absorbing the sudden emptiness he walked to the sound system panel and shut of the music. His internal dialog was loud enough to keep him company. Uber loud. Pipes and drums on a battlefield loud. Both of his friends expected him to run. Damn them. He tried to maintain his anger at Dawson and MacLeod for thinking he would, but it ebbed and flowed into anger at himself. They thought he would run because it was his normal response. He tucked in around himself, blocking out his surroundings and concentrated on his sanding, forcing his mind to still. Scratch, scratch, scratch. “...damned if I’ll do what they expect!”

Chapter 4

 

25.  
Joe watched from behind the dumpster as MacLeod peeled off in the T-Bird. The lengthening twilight shadows gave him decent cover from all but the most suspicious eyes, and Methos had apparently chosen to stay inside. He had tossed his keys to the one neighbor kid he trusted with the hand controls on his SUV, adding a strict warning to watch out for a mostly mythical repo man on his way to the detailer. Joe trusted him to lead MacLeod on a nice, lengthy ride to the best car wash in town, which happened to be about two suburbs over. He was glad Methos hadn't ridden along — the old man had been acting oddly all day and it was about time he returned to form. Hopefully he'd just lock the bar door and drink the place dry.

Something squished under Joe's heel as he pivoted. Yech. Maybe he could get MacLeod to hose down the alley when this was all over, since he was in such a helpful mood. It was a menace.

Sticking close to the alley wall, Joe patted down his jacket, checking that he had all his gear, including two cell phones (one in reserve in case of quickenings) and the nine millimeter. Then he eased down the alley and slipped into the parking garage next door. Checking his watch, he frowned at the sawdust that had crept under his fingernails and into his calluses. He peeked at the burn under the bandage and tried to blow out some of the grit that had worked its way in during the day. The burn throbbed in counterpoint to his stumps. So much for leaving a good looking corpse. He was hitting only one out of three tonight. He wasn't getting any younger, either, dithering like this.

"It's Show Time," he drawled to himself as he faded into the shadows of the garage entrance. Flipping open the phone, he hit the redial. Nice, strong signal. "Hello, Liane."

"Joe."

"In this lifetime," Joe said wryly.

"You've been a Watcher for thirty years! I've seen your class photo!"

"You've seen Cassandra turn into a wolf. Compared to that, a bit of artful aging is easy." Joe was gambling on whether or not Liane had seen the wolf, but it was a low risk roll. Cassandra was nothing if not showy.

"They shot you in Lyons."

"Amazingly, I survived. The firing squad and three bonus potshots from Galati. Just lucky, I guess."

"You're not Methos. I won't believe that." Liane sounded exhausted. Almost as exhausted as Joe felt. No mystery there — he'd been peppering her with phone calls all day. No rest for the wicked. Neither of them.

"Believe what you want, kiddo. Nakano wasn't a sorcerer. Ramirez wasn't a magician. Connor didn't breath underwater." Joe hesitated for effect. "And Cassandra isn't a witch." As he spoke, he worked his way farther into the garage, still checking the signal strength.

"You don't have any legs!"

Joe stopped. Well. Yeah. There's that. "Careless of me. They'll grow back," he added offhandedly. His first outright lie of the day. No reason to skimp on the sin. "A centimeter a year. Depending."

"Depending on what?" Liane whispered.

"How many heads I take. What do you think?" Joe heard a snarl creep into his voice. It even scared himself. He jabbed the elevator button with a little too much force, and was still shaking the sting loose from his hand when he stepped inside.

Carefully he moderated his tone. "None of that is important, Liane. What's important is that you know something about me, I know something about you, and the Watchers would kill us both if they knew our mutual secret. Right?"

"I don't understand." Liane sounded like she was at the end of her rope. "Don't you want to kill me? I tried to kill you."

"Shit happens. We move on. Right now, I'd rather get you back to your teacher. Then I can get back to my bar." Joe watched the slow ascent of the elevator, his eyes flicking back to the telltale on the phone. The fourth floor? No. The fifth. Young Watchers always took the highest point, when cover and seeing were often better at a lower elevation. And there was less likelihood of skylining yourself. Some lessons from Vietnam ran a lot deeper than Watcher classes.

"I...We...I guess we could talk about it. Maybe even face to face..." Liane said slowly, her mind clearly casting for an advantage.

"Yep. Maybe we could." Joe lowered the phone into his pocket and hit another speed dial. The connection would go to his office recorder. It had a lot of memory. And because he was no MacLeod, he drew his gun.

The elevator door opened as Joe finished inserting his earplugs. Nothing like testing a theory on the fly. Across the concrete floor, Liane was snapping her phone shut and holding binoculars on a fine view of two sides of the bar and half the alley. Not the half with the dumpster. She whirled, totally taken by surprise.

"How did you find me?" she asked, her eyes darting to a van to the side with an opened panel door. Her own arsenal lay within, Joe guessed. Out of reach. His own grip on the gun relaxed. Just a little.

"I've known you were here for hours. Watchers usually return to the place they've made their last sighting. I knew you'd watch the bar. But I didn't have to guess." He held up the phone. "GPS. It's not just for geeks anymore. Your phone is tagged. All Watcher phones are tagged." Another reason Joe always carried two phones. He was always losing his.

Liane stared at the gun. "Are you going to shoot me now?"

"No. I meant what I said on the phone. We need to talk." Joe walked slowly toward Liane, lowering his gun. To his immediate regret.

Cassandra walked around the van and stepped in front of Liane. She was holding a very sharp looking sword. "Yes, Mr. Dawson. We do indeed need to talk."

"Dammit." MacLeod always did have a slight culturally inbred tendency to underestimate the cunning of the female of the species. It delighted Amanda no end. Joe raised the gun again out of reflex. He wanted Cassandra to stay well out of swords reach.

Unfortunately, Liane saw the situation in a wholly different light. With a whistling shriek, she cried out in alarm and pushed the Immortal aside. "Look out, Cassandra! Don't let him take your head!" And for the second time in twenty four hours, Liane rushed Joe, righteous murder in her eye.

He sighted the gun, hesitated, then deliberately lowered the gun to point down at his side. He steeled himself, but Liane had too much momentum, and he had too few anchor points. This time, the crash drove the air from his lungs and clipped the back of his head on the concrete floor. While his head spun, a heel stomped down on his wrist. The gun clattered away as Joe instinctively curled around the pain of his insulted burn, hoping to avoid further kicks.

"Cease." The command was so strong Joe almost ceased to breath. Blinking, he saw Cassandra had Liane in a secure hold around the collar, and was leading her back to the van. Okay, that was an improvement.

Cassandra returned, her sword sweeping downward with a hiss to stop perilously near his throat. Maybe not an improvement, then. A change, at least. And a damn sight faster than fire.

"Does anyone know that you are here?" Or that Liane is here?" Cassandra demanded.

"No. No. Okay?" Joe hissed. The words were forced out before he even had a chance to concentrate on the question, much less muster a lie. He gritted his teeth and matched her glare for glare. "How did you get here so quickly? Broomstick?"

"Circumpolar flight, actually. They have Godiva chocolate."

Dawson thumped his head back onto the cool concrete. Of course. Never underestimate the power of chocolate. "But how did you get here. To this garage. Right now?"

"Liane called me. She said she was going to trap Methos here for me tonight. Imagine my surprise, when you came walking in with gun drawn."

"Yeah. Imagine." Joe sighed. "This looks bad, doesn't it?"

"This looks very, very bad, Watcher. You have no idea how bad." The sword at his throat did not waver a millimeter.

"I was afraid of that."

26.  
The edge of the dance floor where the hardwood met the black and white tiles of the main bar floor proved the trickiest area of the floor to repair. No doubt if MacLeod were still here he’d want to start ripping up the tiles by hand and replacing them. “Then he’d discover the hardwood floor underneath and want to uncover and refinish the whole damn thing!” Methos wasn’t embarrassed to talk to himself while alone. He decided, committee of one, that Joe would prefer the ease of caring for the tile floor in the bar. No doubt that was why the beautiful floor had been covered in the first place, because it was a bear to care for — or get out blood stains.

But the lip between the two floor surfaces was now rough. Some type of filler would be needed to smooth the juncture between the two and keep lubricated dancers from tripping. One more trip to the hardware store would be necessary. No doubt MacLeod would know just the thing to buy.

Calling MacLeod first to hear how the spying was proceeding seemed in order. He dusted himself off before entering Joe’s office to give the Highlander a call. As he walked in he was surprised to hear Joe’s voice being recorded on the answering machine.

“...Watchers usually return to the place...”

“What the hell, Joe!” Methos crossed to the recording device and listened carefully.

“Are you going to shoot me now?”

“No, he’s not that smart!” Methos yelled at the machine. He was coiled to dash across the street to the most likely perch for a Watcher scopeing the bar when a third voice shattered the air. Cassandra!

He snagged his coat with swords and pulled out his own phone to call MacLeod as he dashed out of the bar.

MacLeod answered on the fourth ring. “Where the hell are you?”

“I’m beginning to think this isn’t Joe I’m following. Could he be that devious? Stop growling. I’m turning around now. Where is he?”

“Probably in the parking garage next door to the bar. Top floor. With Liane. And Cassandra.”

“Becareful!”

“Get here!”

But it wouldn’t matter how many traffic laws MacLeod broke getting there, whatever was going to happen would happened before he arrived. Methos ran up several flights of stairs in the parking structure, but walked up the last two so that he would not be out of breath when he confronted Cassandra.

“I must be out of my mind!”

His broadsword was in hand when he walked into a heated gathering. Cassandra held her sword at waist height creating a fence between Joe and Liane. Joe was sitting on the hard concrete floor cradling his injured hand.

“...I did it for you!” Liane was yelling at Cassandra. Cassandra turned when she felt his buzz.

“Methos!” Cassandra spit his name out as he joined them and lifted her sword toward his chest.

“He is Methos! You lied!” Liane pointed at Joe. “You’re not Methos!”

Methos stared at Joe as if he’d grown an extra head. “Joe?”

At that moment of confusion Cassandra lunged at Methos with her sword. A corner of his mind had expected the move and he beat down her blade. She stepped back and took position to challenge him.

“We don’t need to do this!” He yelled at her.

She attacked and he parried. Methos forced their direction away from the obstacle Joe created on the floor and they exchanged a flurry of beats and ripostes. The fight lasted all of thirty seconds before Joe found his gun and shot them both.

Liane gaped at the two temporarily dead immortals lying in pools of blood on the concrete floor.

For effect Joe blew a poof of air on the barrel of his revolver.

“As I was saying before we were repeatedly interrupted, we need to talk.”

27.  
Sitting on the cold concrete, Joe settled his back against a concrete pylon and surveyed the carnage. The smell of blood made his skin crawl. But the gun he settled on Liane remained rock steady.

"You shot them," Liane said in a stunned, quiet voice.

"Yeah. And I will again if I have to." He studied her face. "Your first dead bodies? Up close and personal?"

Liane nodded, swallowing.

"Kids.” Joe shook his head. These days they didn't cross train Watchers like they used to. Mortuary work, body pickups, that was all outsourced now. "You still want to kill me?"

Liane shook her head, slowly, almost grudgingly.

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Here's the deal. I fix it so you can be Cassandra's Watcher again. Her only Watcher. 24/7. "

"And what do you want from me?" Liane asked suspiciously.

Joe rubbed his aching head. "I want you to leave me and mine the hell alone." Of course, there was no way it could be that easy. "And I want you to stop using the Voice."

"Or you'll kill me."

Joe remained silent. The gun didn't waver.

Of course, the standoff couldn't last. Long, stalking steps and a swirl of steel announced MacLeod's arrival. MacLeod edged into the battleground, marking each weapon and checking each body. Methos started to stir, in such a controlled manner Joe half suspected he'd been playing possum for a while. And when Cassandra hitched upright with a short scorching oath and plucked at the hole in her blouse, they had a quorum. A very quiet quorum, reigned over by the Watcher.

MacLeod finally turned on Joe. "What the hell were you thinking, Joe? He can't protect himself when he's dead!"

Stung, Joe let the gun dangle, finally. "Gee, and it's nice to see you, too, Mac. I thought I'd have to waste a few more rounds on these two before you got here. Or I could have just let them hash it out and we could have picked up the body parts afterward."

Methos rolled to his feet to stand at MacLeod's shoulder, sword at half mast. He eyed Cassandra warily, but her concentration was now fixed on Joe, her eyes flickering with puzzled interest. Methos too, finally turned his attention to Joe.

"Oh-oh," Joe muttered, bracing himself against the pylon as Methos suddenly strode over to the mortal, grabbed him by his coat lapels, and pulled him abruptly to his feet.

Pinning Joe against the pylon, Methos leaned deeply into Joe's space. "What the hell were you thinking when you were masquerading as me?"

Joe shrugged. "It seemed a good idea at the time. I gotta work on the Etruscan accent, though," he said lightly. "Back off a little, willya? You're bleeding on my coat."

Then MacLeod was there, crowding in for a piece of lapel. "You did what?"

"He pretended to be Methos, scourge of the savannahs," Methos said in a withering tone. "He set himself up. Deliberately."

"If you'd been where you usually are, you'd never have known." The bar. Tibet. Bora Bora. Wherever.

"You pretended to be him?" MacLeod shook his head in disbelief. "Because it worked so well for the last Methos pretender?"

Joe was starting to get annoyed. Too damn many people were pushing him around, lately. "It was Watcher business, MacLeod. I lie to them all the damn time for you. For both of you. Just another day at the office. Now, will you back off?" With his back braced against the pylon, Joe was able to return a respectable shove to MacLeod's chest that moved him all of a half a step.

Methos held his ground inside Joe's defenses, close enough that Joe could feel his healed heart hammering, before whirling away, steel flashing under the garage lights. He stared coldly at Cassandra, who had recovered her sword, and silently dared her to renew the challenge. Joe nearly ended up falling over again as Methos dropped his hold.

Straightening his collar, Joe rolled his eyes and slapped his gun flat against MacLeod's chest. "Here, Mac, take this before I shoot him again. And where the hell are your earplugs?" Chastened, MacLeod eased back and fished into his pocket for the plugs.

Joe used MacLeod's distraction to get right back into Methos' face, ignoring both blade and blazing anger. "You. It's your turn to Watch, buddy." Joe reached up and took out his own earplugs and stuffed them into the Immortal's shirt pocket. "Master strategist, my ass." Joe turned his back on his Immortals and strode straight to Cassandra, unarmed and unprotected from the Voice.

Methos moved to stop him, but MacLeod stopped him with an iron grip on the upper arm. "Cassandra won't hurt him."

"You trust too much, MacLeod. And Liane has hurt him. And will again."

"If Cassandra can't control her own student for a ten minute conversation, then she can't be trusted with her beyond this building," MacLeod said with finality.

Methos' sudden grin didn't have a tinge of humor. "Agreed." He slowly allowed his sword to dip, but he did not sheathe it. "On your head be it."

 

Joe stalked up to Cassandra and forcefully planted his cane. "Go ahead. Ask your questions. MacLeod didn't call you over the ocean for a Bronze Age class reunion."

"Perhaps." Cassandra eyed him slowly, apparently unimpressed. "You've already been caught in a lie, Watcher. Your words hold no currency."

Coloring, Joe acknowledged the accusation with a tight nod. "Liane was obsessed. She was so sure of her assumptions that she was willing to commit more than one murder to get back in your good graces. Hardly anything I told her was a lie. I only made her question her assumptions."

"I assume you are lying about that, too," Cassandra challenged coldly. "You holding a gun, Methos holding a sword...the situation reeks of entrapment."

"That's because Liane learned her obsessions from you. You taught her to hate someone she'd never even met," Joe shot back. Then he deliberately lowered his voice. "And as a result, an Immortal named Kneissl is dead. He didn't have to die. He never harmed you."

Cassandra flicked her gaze to Liane. "Kneissl? That harmless hebephrenic?"

"Not so harmless when Liane wound him up like a three dollar watch and sent him to his death," Joe stared at Liane, daring her to contradict him.

"He was a womanizing playboy. Useless. It was worth his death to take Methos' head," Liane returned, still certain of Cassandra's hatred, if not her own.

Neither mortal expected the whispered note of grief that escaped Cassandra's throat. "Fool. Are your Chronicles so threadbare, Watchers? Kneissl helped me smuggle thousands of Romany and other refugees through the forests of occupied Austria to safety in Switzerland. Some of them are your sisters, Liane. You used your Gift to harm him?"

"Liane used her gift to murder him," Joe corrected coldly. Still, he averted his eyes as Liane subsided in shock. He didn't have the right to cast stones.

"But what about Methos? Together we could take them all! They can't fight off our Voices combined!"

Cassandra looked at Liane, then at Methos. She was clearly furious. And cornered. And very, very tempted.

Alarmed, Methos shifted his sword and dug for Joe's earplugs. MacLeod edged a step forward, but this time Methos held him back. "Use the gun if you have to. Joe's too close for sword work."

Joe caught the comment, and agreed. He was way too close for sword work. The problem was bullet work wasn't likely to improve Cassandra's mood. Or wardrobe. He solved the problem by moving forward two steps, close enough to Cassandra's steel to appreciate the fine folds in the blade. In looming over the witch, he cut off her view of Methos. He also blocked MacLeod's field of fire. "We didn't come here to trap you. But only you can keep this from getting out of hand. The way I see it, you have two viable options. You take responsibility for your student, and you walk away. Or you give her up to us. And you walk away."

Cassandra scowled in disbelief. "And we come back to your penchant for untruth."

Joe gripped his cane, gathering something from deep inside. "Go on. You've got the mojo. Use your Voice and make me tell it straight."

Methos reached out to MacLeod. "Give me the gun. Joe doesn't know what he's doing."

MacLeod stirred restlessly. "She won't hurt him. She didn't hurt me."

"Cassandra lusts after you, Highlander," Methos snapped. "She doesn't even like Joe. Not one little bit."

"She knows he's my friend."

"Like me?"

MacLeod hesitated. "Joe's under my protection."

"Funny," Methos said acidly, "From here it looks like the other way around."

Cassandra edged around Joe's side and peered suspiciously at Methos, still keeping his taller frame between her and the other Immortals and her sword very much at ready. "Very well."

Joe bowed his head and stood his ground against three thousand years of bound up rage, as Cassandra unleashed the Voice. The conversation was not loud. It was not long. The power of her magic curled around the Watcher like a vise, bearing down on his will and mind and heart. When the eldritch tones fell silent, Joe staggered under the weight of his answers.

Cassandra relaxed the grip on her sword slowly as Joe nodded one last quiet assent, praying it was enough. Just enough.

But there was one last question. "Tell me, Watcher. Why do you abandon your own mortal destiny to follow MacLeod's standard? You could be a scholar. A bard. A husband and a father. Why devote your life to scribbling and spying? MacLeod's story isn't yours. It will never belong to you."

Joe's voice caught, his face twisting as he battled the geas laid upon him. In dismay, MacLeod moved to intervene, only to be stopped this time by Methos' iron grip. "You can't save him from his own demons, MacLeod. I tried to warn you."

Shaking with the effort, Joe slowly lifted his cane, changing the grip.

"You can't fight the truth..." Cassandra warned.

The cane dropped from nerveless fingers, clattering away. But Joe's eyes cleared, and his face calmed. "You know what, Cassandra? It's none of your god damn business."

At that, Cassandra laughed, a strange and ringing sound in the echoing garage. She reached out and brushed his forehead, a new respect in her eye. "My apology, Bard. I will take Liane back. And I will teach her a different path."

Pale and aching, Joe didn't move as Cassandra shepherded Liane into the van and slammed the doors, leaving all her Watcher impedimenta behind. Her eyes were sharp and watchful as they eased the vehicle past the Immortals on guard. Methos still gripped his sword in a bone white hand.

MacLeod shook his head and took out his earplugs. Noticing Joe hadn't moved he strode to his elbow, only then realizing the Watcher was swaying on his stumps to a song only he could hear.

"Are you all right, Joe?" he asked softly.

"The truth hurts, man. The truth hurts."

28.  
MacLeod took Dawson’s arm and lifted it over his shoulder. “Come on, Joe, let’s get out of here.”

“My cane.”

Methos searched around for it, retrieved it from the concrete floor of the parking structure and passed it to Dawson. Cane firmly in hand Joe tried to relinquish the Highlander’s support but MacLeod held fast. “Let me help until you’ve shaken her Voice.”

“It’s OK, Mac. I’m back.” This time Joe freed himself and stepped aside, directly into Methos’ path.

“Well. You’re still here.”

“Apparently. What were you thinking, Joe? Telling her you’re Methos!”

“He was protecting you.” MacLeod said.

“I don’t need a keeper, Joe. Five thousand years!”

Joe asked, “And what were you thinking when you came dashing up here to meet Cassandra, or were you just high on varnish fumes?”

“He was protecting you,” MacLeod repeated.

“Shut up!” Joe hollered.

“MacLeod!”

MacLeod laughed at them. “Testy, testy, guys. Come on, let’s get out of here before they change their minds and come back.”

“I thought you said Cassandra wouldn’t do that!” Methos shouted again but with diminishing energy.

“I said she wouldn’t go after Joe, not you. I think another night at Joe’s secret hideout is in order. We need to know for sure they’ve left the country. Unless you’re planning to take off now?”

Methos glared at MacLeod’s knowing grin. He thinks I’m going to stay, I should leave now!

MacLeod yanked him up close by the lapels just as he’d done in the bar the night before and kissed him roughly.

Joe longed to whop them with his cane, but he wasn’t steady enough to take a swing at them. So instead he charged toward the elevator. “Thanks for the show, guys!” He called over his shoulder.

MacLeod broke the kiss abruptly. “Wait up, Joe!” He dashed after their disgruntled friend.

Methos stood disoriented in their wake. “Wam bam, thank you…” he muttered.

He stared at MacLeod standing inside the elevator holding the door open for him.

“Hurry up!” MacLeod shouted.

A variety of responses zinged through his thoughts.

“Stop thinking.” MacLeod commanded.

Methos tugged at a fringe of hair on his forehead. “Yes, sire.”

A smirk and raised brow was all this display earned him. So he ambled over to the elevator, still thinking. He sighed and shook his head. Payback could wait.

The elevator ride to the ground floor was outwardly silent, if inwardly tumultuous. The weary men trudged across the street to Joe’s bar and locked the doors. Then they clambered into the T-bird and MacLeod drove a bit out of the way to buy take-out barbeque, before they headed over to Joe’s condo. The ride was accomplished without a great deal of conversation, but not in silence as each man seemed prone to grumbling and muttering.

The testiness eased up as they gathered around the kitchen table. Joe placed out more of the left over Christmas paper plates. MacLeod served the spicy pork ribs from the take- out sack and Methos opened three bottles of beer. Quiet reigned as they ate.

Once the ribs were naught but bones, MacLeod launched what he believed was a safe topic. “You know, Joe, I bet that under the tiles the rest of your bar floor is that beautiful hardwood too. We could —.” He stopped when Methos started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

Methos shook his head. “Nothing, nothing. You should find another old house to remodel, MacLeod. Let Joe have his bar back.”

“You’d help me?”

“Only if there were power tools involved.”

“Hmm.”

“Just say yes, Mac,” Joe prompted.

“Yes.”

“But no nose painting.” Methos said.

“What?” Joe’s curiosity was aroused.

“Never mind!” MacLeod insisted.

“MacLeod has impulse control issues.”

“That’s true,” Joe agreed.

“Hey!”

“He can’t help it. He’s just a hot headed lad.”

They shared a laugh and another beer. Dawson was sore from hitting the ground twice in as many days, so he called it a night early. He had another long day of repair work looming ahead tomorrow.

“Keep it down will you, guys?”

“Yes, Joe,” his Immortals replied. He shook his head and laughed. He could practically smell the lust. Must be the fighting.

After Joe had left the room, MacLeod gave Methos a leering smile just before he yanked him out of his chair and urged him up the stairs. Once behind the closed bedroom door he said, “Maybe we don’t have that quiet as mice thing down yet.”

“Perhaps I should gag you?” Methos suggested.

“Me!”

“Sssh!”

“MacLeod laughed. “Yeah, I guess it could be me.”

“You do have enthusiasm, Highlander. Perhaps we can find — ah!”

MacLeod had shoved Methos onto the bed. “Sssh!”

Methos grinned up at MacLeod from his sprawl across Amy’s pale pink bedspread. And sprawled some more. “What am I ever going to do with you, Highlander? Shoving me around like you own me! Do you know what happened to the last fellow suffering from that delusion?”

MacLeod stood at the foot of the bed watching Methos lure him. He heard words, but knew their information value was near zero. Methos the word slinger. So in kind he spoke, “I’ve been thinking about your leather chastity strap story all day long.” Duncan slowly removed his own shirt with Methos’ undivided attention.

“Did I ever mention that you shouldn’t believe every story I tell?” Methos voice had become raspy.

“I figured that out on my own shortly after meeting you. Still I think the idea has nice possibilities.” He bent over and untied his shoes, turning slightly so that Methos would have a nice view of his backside during the process. “I have a box of leather scraps I’ve collected over the years.” He stood and kicked off his shoes. Next he unbuttoned his jeans and slowly opened the zipper. “I bet I could fashion a serviceable strap for you.” He slid out of his jeans with more wriggling than required and was pleased to note his companion’s breathing rate quicken. “Would you like that?” Since he was lowering his briefs at that moment he was not surprised by the lack of response.

Now nude he crawled up the bed in between Methos’ long limbs and inquired, “Why do you still have your clothes on?” Then he assisted his recumbent friend out of his jeans and shirt.

“You’re such a helpful sort.” Methos observed.

“I try.”

“I think you’re succeeding.” It took immortal control not to tremble when Duncan touched him.

“So it seems.” MacLeod spread himself across his lean partner and sighed. He kissed the long neck then blew warm air over the skin he had dampened causing a lovely shiver. Methos swallowed, and because MacLeod thought he saw discomfort asked, “Am I too heavy?”

“No. But perhaps you could move a little more rapidly?”

“Aye. I could do that.” And he did. He moved faster, exploring the fine body with many kisses, but not so fast that they would finish without a proper worship of each other. Anointing with lotion was followed by joining. MacLeod, slowly caressing through that moment of vulnerability, cherishing the deep growl from Methos as his aim proved very true.

When no more could be taken and the little death occurred words they would never repeat in the light of day were spoken. And so it seemed, for a period of time they would walk their path together, thanks to the complicated truth of a very good friend.

29.  
Joe made it to his bedroom in a relatively straight line, considering the mileage he'd added up over the last two days. He figured he must have pulled it off cleanly (with a little help from MacLeod's impulse control issues) because the five thousand year old quack didn't follow him and start prodding. Not that Methos' utter disgust at Joe's attempted masquerade had anything to do with it. Methos could get murderously annoyed over the short term, but he didn't hold grudges. Which was a good thing for Joe and very good thing for MacLeod.

Cold beer and a warm bed didn't hurt, if the laughter that trickled down from the bedroom upstairs was any indication.

Ruefully fingering the lump on the back of his head, Joe took stock. He wasn't really any more banged up than usual — he'd come out of a couple of St. Patrick’s Days in worse shape. Having his Immortals safe and celebrating under his own roof was worth far more than a couple of stings and dings.

That was the real secret he concealed from Cassandra and Highlander alike. Joe didn't aspire to be a member of the Clan MacLeod. Mortality aside, his lifetime role as a spy for the Watchers forever barred him from the clan handclasp. But in the privacy of his mind, for a few brief years, MacLeod and Methos and Amanda and even poor, dead Richie were all inducted into his own unspoken clan. In a few years, a dozen or more if he was lucky, his secret would safely die with him. Still, his clan would carry on, because there would always be a tavern or inn somewhere in the world with a bit of music, a tall beer, and a warm companion. And all Cassandra's cold magic couldn't change that.

Joe rubbed his burning eyes, banishing his maudlin thoughts. Only long Marine-instilled habits kept him from shedding his clothes and props all over the floor and falling into bed. Instead he fell into the chair, unstrapped and stacked the gear, and rubbed some feeling back into his thighs. After checking to see the coast was clear, he pushed into the bathroom to quietly wash up and dress down in some cutoffs and an impossibly faded sweatshirt that once said Chicago State.

He tossed the sawdust trashed bandage and cleaned the burn with a lot more whispered bad words than his boyhood priest normally countenanced in a month of confessions. He contemplated chasing a couple of pain pills with a shot of Scotch, but he had too much respect for the single malt to waste it on sleep.

A thump, followed by a series of bumps from the ceiling overhead made him laugh. Neither of his Immortals were going to notice him sneaking around to practice medicine without a license. "If they break the bed, they're going to pony up for a new one," he growled, and then laughed again for talking to himself like a peevish old maid. He just hoped like hell neither of them had managed to scare up a can of caviar.

Knowing he was too tired to sleep anyway, Joe compromised two of his vices, taking half a pill and a half a shot of the good scotch. Rolling into the main room, he plugged his guitar into the preamp, put on the headphones and started picking at a tune. Joe worried at the notes long into the night, chasing rills and riffs through lonely shadows, seeking the song he knew lay just beyond. Long after midnight, he finally laid the guitar away and stretched his fingers. Methos' voice floating out of the darkened stairwell seemed like a mere extension of his dark dreams.

"That's an old song, Joe. Very old." Methos blinked, his eyes catching the harbor lights.

"Cassandra's parting gift. I didn't think you heard."

"I heard her laugh, Joe."

Joe shrugged. "Wiccan humor. You had to be there."

"I was there, you dolt." Methos came into the room, and knelt at Joe's side. Working completely in the dark, he touched Joe's skin above and below the burn, feeling for the unnatural heat of infection. He explored the lump on Joe's crown, the aching stumps, and the calloused palms. Finally he touched Joe's forehead. A feather touch. Like Cassandra.

Joe twitched away, coming fully awake. "I'm okay. Just another day at the office."

"That's what I was afraid of," Methos stood, his face unreadable in the shadows. He silently made room as Joe pushed himself out of the room, pacing the chair down the hallway. He fetched water, and loomed over his victim until the glass was finished.

While Methos was refilling the glass, Joe cast himself into bed, pulling up the quilt over the chill of the sheets.

On Methos' return, Joe glared at him balefully, then belatedly slammed his eyes shut. "You're naked."

"You only just noticed? Then I am worried about you." Methos reached out to smooth the bedcovers.

"Tuck me in, and I'll shoot you," Joe threatened, though his heart wasn't in it.

Methos frowned. "Again? That's a very bad habit, Joe."

"Must be the company I keep." He was already drifting, his lids too heavy to reopen.

"Are you cold?"

"Go keep Mac warm..." Joe muttered, turning on his side and curling into himself.

"Okay, Joe. This time," Methos promised, pulling up the quilt and tucking it in over an exposed shoulder.

But Joe didn't hear the solemn words. He had already slipped away from the waking world into a darker land where a song curled like wood smoke through his dreams.


End file.
